


Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?

by hull1984



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sweet November (2001)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:04:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hull1984/pseuds/hull1984
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron meets tight-laced ad executive Draco at the Driving Test Centre. Draco wants only to be left alone to continue on the fast track of his career, but Ron is drawn to him. He makes him an offer: to be his September, the man who will live with him for one month only, during which he will "help" him. Not sure why, Draco accepts, finding that Ron appeals to something he didn't even know was inside him. But just as he begins to reach out to him, Draco finds that Ron has secrets of his own...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the recent Ron/Draco fest. A non-magical AU based on the film Sweet November. THIS IS NOT A DEATH FIC! I promise a happier ending than the film. I have taken great liberties with the British driving test (I know you have to take the theory test before applying for the practical and the tests are individual so no cheating can take place) but it was integral to the plot, so please forgive me. Title and quote from The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock by T.S.Eliot. 
> 
> Beta'd by the very kind wwmrsweasleydo.

Oh, for fuck’s sake…

Draco shook his head in disgust, glaring at the other people walking into the room. This whole thing was a farce; he’d been driving for years and yet it had taken until now for some stupid bureaucratic idiot to suddenly realise that he’d never actually sat the bloody theory test? What a bunch of morons. He glanced impatiently at his watch; these people really needed to sit the fuck down so they could get on with it, doubtless this was the highlight of their dreary little lives but he actually had more important things to do with his time. 

Fifteen minutes into the test and his mood hadn’t improved. He’d expected to sail through the answers; after all he’d been driving for twelve years. But half of these questions seemed to expect him to administer first aid at the site of an accident, or to stop to help the elderly across the road. Draco could assure anyone willing to listen, that neither of those things were ever going to happen; if he’d wanted to be a bloody boy scout he’d have bought the uniform and learned the promise when he was ten. Oh, bloody hell, not another one. He ground his teeth together and tried to resist punching the computer screen. 

“You are towing a trailer on a motorway. What is your maximum speed?” 

Really? Because seriously, in what fucking universe was he ever likely to be towing a trailer? Did he look like someone who went camping? He forced himself to take a calming breath. Right, well it probably wasn’t 70mph, as stupid road laws always erred on the side of caution. So it was either 60mph or 50mph. But surely 50mph would be too slow? Okay, so it was 60mph then. Or was it? Oh, fuck it. He’d already had to guess too many of the answers and he didn’t dare risk any more possible wrong answers.

He looked around the room. All the other occupants had their eyes trained on their own tests. He leant subtly to his left, trying to see what the woman at the next table had clicked on, but she looked up and cast him a quick outraged glare before shielding her screen with her hand and mouthing a very clear "fuck off" at him. Charming.

He glanced fleetingly to his right but well, between the menacing look that greeted him there, and Draco’s own conviction that the big ape would be hard pressed to _read_ the questions let alone answer them correctly, he quickly dismissed that particular option.

Draco huffed out an exasperated breath; things were beginning to look desperate. Just then, his attention was drawn to the desk on the other side of the bitch: nice set of shoulders, interesting profile (bright ginger but he supposed that couldn’t be helped). Draco checked his watch, if he didn’t get out of here soon he was going to miss his 11o’clock meeting. Oh, to hell with it.

“Psst!” 

The woman on his left shot him an infuriated look. Draco raised an eyebrow and very clearly mouthed "fuck off" back at her (see how she liked it). She turned an interesting shade of vermillion before turning her attention back to her test with an angry shake of her head. Draco hoped she failed and had to spend the rest of her life getting about on run down, smelly public transport, teach her to be such a nosy bitch, if she wasn’t going to help him, then she could just piss off…and, oh hey look, Nice Shoulders looked good from the front too.

The bloke had turned to look over at Draco, a clearly bemused smile on his face. He cocked an eyebrow, doubtless waiting for some indication as to why Draco had been trying to get his attention. Well, Draco could think of quite a few interesting responses to that, but he supposed he should stick to the matter at hand.

“Number twenty seven,” he whispered and nodded his head at his screen.

The man frowned, looking confused for a moment before he suddenly seemed to get it. He glanced at his own computer and then turned back with an apologetic shrug.

“Sorry,” he whispered with a smile. “Not got to that one yet.”

Draco rolled his eyes, fucking great. Just then, he noticed a movement at the front of the room. Shit, looked like the moron they’d put in charge of overseeing the test had finally woken up and was showing a little too much interest in what was going on at the back of the room. Draco immediately turned his eyes back to his computer screen, ignoring the ginger guy’s look of concern.

“Hey, you there.”

Draco kept his head down; maybe if he played dumb the git would let it drop.

“Hey! Yes, you. Mr. Weasley, isn’t it?” 

Draco risked a glance up. The ginger bloke had turned back to face the front of the room and the man at the desk was looking right at him. 

“Bring your application paper here,” he said brusquely.

Draco’s whole body thrummed with relief. Oh, thank God, he was going to get away with it. The other man stood up and turned to look down at Draco. The look on his face clearly said 'you have to be kidding' and Draco momentarily felt a pang of something that might have been guilt (it was hard to tell, it wasn’t a sensation he was overly familiar with) but Draco quickly sat on it. He shrugged his shoulders and returned his attention to his test. There really was no point in both of them getting into trouble.

“Seriously?” The redhead actually sounded amused, which Draco thought pretty ridiculous. If their positions were reversed he’d be screaming obscenities and threats at the sniveling little shit (not that Draco considered himself a sniveling little shit, of course). He resisted the urge to look up, waiting until he heard the other man move to the front of the room before he finally chanced another look. 

The Officer in Charge of Tests (or whatever the fuck he was called) had taken the man’s application form from him and was tearing it up, ignoring the bloke’s protests as he did so. Typical jumped up little Hitler, Draco thought, probably the only time he ever had any power over anyone, bet his wife ruled the house, doubtless had a thumb mark on his head if you looked close enough. Draco shook his head in disgust.

“Surely you know the rules by now, Mr. Weasley.” The man’s voice was high and weedy and matched his appearance perfectly as far as Draco was concerned. “Talking, or any hint of cheating, will not be tolerated.”

“But I-” 

“No.” The man stood up, not that it made much difference, Weasley (and how unfortunate was that for a name?) still towered over him. “You know the drill; you will be able to re-take the test in 30 days. Now please leave quietly. You have caused quite enough disruption.”

Weasley’s lovely shoulders slumped as he walked back to his seat to collect his jacket and bag. Draco quickly looked down; after all there was no need to draw unnecessary attention to himself (or to remind the other bloke exactly who was to blame for getting him thrown out). 

“Good luck.”

Draco looked up in surprise. Weasley was talking to him and actually sounded sincere. And now he was smiling. Draco nodded dumbly as the redhead turned and left the room. Of course, it was only then that Draco noticed that he was limping and carried a walking stick. Draco sighed dramatically. Well, wasn’t that was just perfect? Apparently, he’d managed to get the cripple kicked out of class. Oh, today was definitely turning out to be a doozy.

***

Forty minutes later, Draco hurried from the building and crossed the road to the car park. He’d had his secretary drive his car there earlier so he’d be able to drive back to the office after he’d had his license reissued (he’d never doubted that he’d pass the test). She had taken the bus back after Draco had told her that he really didn’t see any need for her to waste more work time waiting for him (or, any need for her to take a taxi for that matter, and he had a good mind to dock her salary for the roll of the eyes that particular comment had elicited). 

He checked his watch. Shit, there was no way he was going to make his 11 o’clock now, which meant rescheduling. If he hadn’t been distracted by that whole debacle with the redhead, he might still have made it. Useless tosser, why did he have to be so obvious? If he’d just been a bit more subtle then that trumped up little fascist would never have noticed and they could have both just got on with the test. Some people were... oh, good God was this guy for real?

Weasley was draped bold as day all over the bonnet of Draco’s car.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Draco screeched, storming over to his car. He fleetingly considered dragging the bloke off it once he reached him, but, well, there was quite a bit of a size difference and cars could be replaced easier than bodies. He settled for glaring at the bastard instead.

“Hi,” Weasley said smiling up at him. “How’d the test go?”

Draco was starting to think that the bloke might have some serious mental health issues. He nervously clutched his phone in his pocket, readying himself to dial 999 if there was any sudden move towards him.

“Get off my car, you fucking loon.” Draco may have been worried about what the guy might do next, but he was damned if that meant he was going to allow the big oaf to intimidate him.

“Oh,” Weasley said, sitting up and looking down at the car. “Is this your car?”

Draco resisted the urge to stamp his foot (he liked to think he’d outgrown that particular habit since school) and took a step closer. “Are you seriously expecting me to believe you just randomly happened to pick my car to park your fat arse on?”

Weasley smirked, “No, I just happened to pick the most ridiculously over-priced car here to park my very…” he winked, “ _hot_ arse on. It turning out to belong to you is just a happy coincidence.”

Draco chose to not dwell on the whole _hot arse_ part of that statement (or at least he tried very hard not to) and narrowed his eyes at the other man. “Well, do you mind removing said arse from my vehicle? Oh, and I can assure you it wasn’t over-priced, I happened to get a very good deal.”

Weasley nodded, the annoying smirk still in place. “I bet you did,” he said. “You look like someone who always gets the best deals. In fact, how about we make one now?”

Oh God, Draco thought, he’s a prostitute and I’m about to find out what the going rates are for rent boys and their dubious acts (he made a quick mental calculation of how much cash he had on him). He cleared his throat. “What did you have in mind?” he asked, pleased that his voice sounded so steady.

Weasley shuffled forward slightly until his long legs hung off the front of the bonnet. “I’ll get off your car,” he said, voice low and inviting and Draco found himself leaning forward. “If you promise to give me a...,” he paused and Draco licked his lips. “Lift,” Weasley continued with a wink. And the bastard actually grinned as he looked up at Draco through his eyelashes.

Draco blinked. That. That wasn’t what he’d been expecting. 

Weasley was still grinning and Draco really, really wanted to punch him in the face. He hated being laughed at. He pulled his car keys out of his pocket and pressed the fob, walking over to the driver’s side, he yanked open the door. 

He looked back at Weasley before getting in. “Or,” he said with a sneer. “How about I drive off with you still on the bonnet and we see how long you can hold on before you’re thrown off into oncoming traffic?”

He ducked into the car and immediately turned on the ignition. As the engine growled to life, he watched Weasley slide slowly off the bonnet. Before he could drive off though, the redhead limped up to his window and knocked on the glass.

Draco rolled his eyes. He really ought to just drive off and not give the jackass another thought.

He lowered the window.

“You are one uptight son-of-bitch, you know that?” Weasley shook his head as he spoke but he was still smiling. Draco opened his mouth to give that the indignant reply it so richly deserved, but Weasley rolled right on over him before he could even get a word out. “Look, we both know you’re the reason I won’t be able to drive for at least another month.” He paused, as if waiting for Draco to argue. But, well, much as it pained Draco to admit it, he probably had a point. “So,” Weasley continued, “I thought it only reasonable that you give me a lift.” He raised his finger to halt Draco’s attempted objection. “Just this once,” he said in a coaxing voice.

Draco let out a loud sigh and dropped his head back onto the headrest. He was beginning to see what his teachers had meant when they had warned him about the dangers of cheating. Reaching across to the passenger side, Draco opened the glove compartment and pulled a card from the holder there. He sat back up and shoved the card out of the window and into Weasley’s hand.

“Okay,” he said. “I will cover your transport costs for the month. Call my secretary and she’ll take care of the details.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he drove quickly out of the car park.

Surely to God, he thought, this day could not get any worse. 

***

Draco’s microwave pinged. 

He tried not to shudder. This was quite possibly the lowest point of a very, very shitty day. Opening the door he used a folded tea towel to gingerly lift out the hot bowl. Placing it carefully down on the counter, he frowned. It was grey. He shook his head sadly; food should never be grey. Of course, it did explain why the Scottish were angry all the time and drank so much.

Porridge.

Or no, not porridge. What had the American called it? Cream of wheat. And really, could a breakfast cereal possibly sound any gayer?

Gay _and_ grey. 

Oh God, he was so fucked.

Why had he even fought for this stupid fucking account in the first place? Oh yeah. Snape. He had to impress Severus fucking Snape. He took a spoon out of the cutlery drawer and stuck it in the middle of the gloop in the bowl. It stayed upright. Christ. On. A. Crutch. There had to be better ways to get a partnership. Maybe he could just sleep with Snape? Oh ew. And suddenly the porridge didn’t seem so bad.

He reached his hand reluctantly towards the spoon but the hand seemingly had other ideas and swerved left to grab the bottle of red wine sitting there. And, well, Draco couldn’t really argue with that. 

He was looking for a glass when his intercom beeped. Draco huffed out a frustrated breath. What the hell? It was amazing that he ever got anything done what with all the constant interruptions. He walked over to the video screen on the wall and switched it on. The big, stupid face of Crabbe, the doorman, filled the screen. 

“Yes?” Draco snapped impatiently.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Malfoy,” Crabbe replied with a slight nod of his head. “But there’s a gentleman here insisting he be allowed up to see you.”

Draco frowned, glancing over at the time on the microwave. It was 10.30 on a Thursday evening, who on earth would need to see him at this time? And then, because his life was just fucking perfect, he heard Weasley’s cheery voice ringing out from the intercom.

“Hey, Draco, remember me?”

Draco turned back to the screen and there he was, grinning and waving, like a baboon on acid. Draco glared back at him. It had no effect whatsoever. 

Crabbe chose that moment to step in front of Weasley and Draco took a quick step back away from the suddenly ghastly sight. 

“Shall I send him up, sir?” He asked.

“Good God, no!” Draco answered quickly. “I’ll be right down,” (with a shotgun, he mentally added).

By the time Draco reached the front lobby, Weasley was perched on Crabbe’s desk, waving his arms about as he tried to make some doubtless idiotic point or other. Crabbe, the worthless dope, was staring up at him with adoring eyes.

“Straight, my arse.” Draco mumbled as he strode over to the pair.

“You,” he said, pointing accusingly at Crabbe. “Are the worst doorman ever.” He turned to glare at Weasley. “And you,” he said, “are a bloody menace.” 

He grabbed hold of the redhead’s elbow and pulled him off the desk, the whole effect of which was somewhat lessened by Weasley choosing to use the momentum to shuffle them awkwardly around in his arms, his stupid bloody stick hitting Draco in the shin as they moved.

“Draco, if you wanted to dance with me you should have just asked,” he said, smiling brightly and pulling Draco closer.

Draco pushed him away and pointed at the door. “Out!” He shouted.

Weasley, clearly unperturbed and still wearing the ridiculous grin, turned back to shout to Crabbe. “Catch you later, Vince.” 

Then, he grabbed hold of Draco’s wrist with one hand and his stupid walking stick with the other, and before Draco could so much as utter a word of protest, had propelled them both out of the door and onto the pavement (he was irritatingly agile for a guy with a limp).

Once they were outside, Draco pulled out of his grip and punched Weasley in the shoulder as hard as he could (and how bloody insulting was it that the bastard didn’t even flinch?).

“What is your fucking problem?” He shouted in Weasley’s maddening face. “What could you possibly want now? Was there a problem with Pansy?”

“Pansy?” Weasley asked looking confused.

Draco rolled his eyes. “My secretary, you cretin. You were meant to call her about your travel expenses.”

“Oh, that,” Weasley grinned again. “Yeah, no I decided I’d rather have you drive me.”

Draco ran his hand through his hair; this guy was killing him. In fact, this whole situation was just getting ridiculous and Draco had really had enough. 

“You are fucking nuts,” he said shaking his head. He turned back towards the entrance. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, you fucking lunatic, I was in the middle of some important research.” And he started to walk back into the building.

“Hey, hi. Do you live here?”

Draco paused at the door and turned to see who it was that Weasley was talking to now. 

Shit. 

It was Sirius Black from number twelve. 

Sirius Black from number twelve who had gone to school with Severus Snape.

Severus Snape, senior partner at Draco’s advertising firm. 

Severus Snape, who held Draco’s entire future in the palm of his hands. 

Or, at least he had. Looking over at Weasley, Draco was beginning to suspect it may have recently changed hands. Draco held his breath as he waited to see what Weasley was going to do next.

Black had stopped in his tracks at Weasley’s words and now he turned to face the younger man.

“Yes, I do,” he said with a smile. “Can I help you?”

Weasley took a couple of steps closer and smiled warmly. “Maybe,” he said coyly. “Maybe, we can help each other.”

Oh God, Draco thought.

Because, of course, _of course_ , Black was returning the smile and moving closer. 

“Oh,” he said huskily. “Tell me more.”

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

“You see,” Weasley said. “Draco was just telling me how much he really fancied a threesome tonight and well,” he paused to give Black a slow once over. “You look like you might be his type.” He licked his lips. “And you’re definitely mine.”

To Draco’s utter horror (and, well yes, mild fascination) Black looked only too willing to take Weasley up on his offer. It was clearly time to step in and stop the madness.

“Ha, ha, very funny, Weasley.” Draco ran over to Weasley and snaked his arm around his shoulder. “This one,” he said plastering on a grin and giving Weasley a hearty shake. “Always the joker.”

Black raised a dubious eyebrow. “Oh,” he said looking at Weasley. “Were you joking?” 

Weasley considered Draco for a moment, before turning back to the older man. “Sorry,” he said looking anything but.

Black sighed, looking first at Draco and then at Weasley. “So am I,” he said with a sly wink. Then he turned and continued into the building. 

Draco slumped in relief and then slapped Weasley hard on the back of his head. “Are you fucking insane?” he spat. “I have to live here for Christ’s sake.”

Weasley shrugged. “I’m asking for one small favour,” he said matter-of-factly. “And also, need I remind you, that if you hadn’t been trying to cheat today, I’d be able to drive myself and we wouldn’t even be having this conversation?”

Draco opened his mouth to reply with a suitably acerbic comment and then thought about what Weasley had said. 

“Okay,” he said slowly. “I’m sorry. I admit it; I was maybe a bit of an arsehole.” He held his hand up to forestall Weasley’s response. “I probably should have spoken up. But I’ve tried to make up for it. Why can’t you just take a taxi and then send me the bill? Oh,” he said in sudden realization. “If you don’t have the money up front then I can give you cash now.” And he started to reach for his wallet.

“Fuck you!” 

Draco stepped back in surprise.

Weasley shook his head and started to pace back and forth. “Is that you’re answer to everything?” he asked sounding frustrated. “Throw some money at it and it will go away?”

“It’s always worked up to now.” Draco said with a careless shrug.

Weasley stopped pacing and looked at him for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, sorry, it’s not going to work this time.” And he folded his arms in a very pointed manner.

Draco frowned. “And what if I decide to just call the police and have you removed?” he asked, folding his own arms.

Of course, this was the exact moment that Mr. and Mrs. McGonagall, the oldest and most respected residents of Draco’s building, decided to pull up in a taxi.

All may still have been well, if Weasley hadn’t seen Draco’s obvious panic as the car pulled up next to the kerb. But he had seen it and with a last, wicked look at Draco, the bastard limped over to the taxi. Leaning his stick up against the side of the car, he reached forward to open the door, and then extended his hand to help Mrs. McGonagall out. 

The old lady looked momentarily flustered at being accosted by a complete stranger, but then her good breeding seemingly kicked in, and she graciously accepted his hand and stepped from the vehicle.

“Thank you, young man,” she said in her rich Scottish burr.

“You are very welcome,” Weasley said with a charming smile (well, Draco assumed a dried up old hag like McGonagall would find it charming).

Mr. McGonagall having paid the taxi driver, joined his wife and, nodding his own thanks to Weasley, took his wife’s arm and walked towards the entrance. As they passed Draco they both smiled and wished him a good evening. Draco, still frozen in horror, could only manage a mangled smile of his own and a nod of the head that probably had more than a touch of the manic about it. God, he was going to murder Weasley before the night was out. At least he hadn’t said anything outrageous this time (of course, Draco’s mistake was in believing that the danger had past). 

Weasley retrieved his stick and made his way back over, then, giving Draco the most purely evil look he had ever seen, the git threw his arm around Draco’s waist and said in a very clear, loud voice, “I told you, Draco, that if you want to collar me, it’s going to cost extra.”

To their credit the McGonagalls didn’t flinch, but there was a certain something about the set of their shoulders that told Draco that they had most definitely heard.

“That’s it!” He screamed, as the entrance door closed behind the elderly couple. “That is so fucking it!” And he pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket.

But before he could dial the number, Weasley took hold of Draco’s wrist and shook his head at him.

“I’ll just tell them you picked me up and then refused to pay,” he said flippantly.

Draco’s mouth dropped open in shock. “You wouldn’t dare,” he sputtered a moment later. “Prostitution is illegal.” 

Weasley grinned. “So is kerb crawling,” he said smugly. “And I have a friend who’s a journalist.” He looked up at Draco’s building. “I don’t have a reputation to protect. Can you say the same?” 

Draco allowed his words to sink in. And knew the bastard had him. He really couldn’t afford any sort of scandal, not when he was on the brink of finally getting his partnership.

Draco closed his eyes and took two long, calming breaths (after all, beating someone to death on the pavement outside of his building would probably be just as damning as any other scandalous mention in the tabloids). Once he thought he had his temper under control, he opened his eyes and glared at Weasley. “One,” he said through gritted teeth. “Just _one_ lift to wherever you say - within reason, I am not driving you to fucking Scotland - and after that you will leave me alone.” 

Weasley’s grin grew wider. “One trip,” he agreed.

“Okay,” Draco said grudgingly. “Let me know when – ”

“Now.”

“Now?” Draco said disbelievingly. “But I have porr – ” he started to protest and then thought about the congealing mess in the bowl upstairs. “Okay,” he said nodding his head. “Now.” 

***

The drive wasn’t actually all that bad. They drove out of town for about twenty minutes along a dark, country lane. It did occur to Draco early on in the journey that there was every possibility that he was currently driving his would-be murderer to the very spot that he intended to bury the body, but then he thought Weasley probably wouldn’t have drawn quite so much attention to himself if he’d planned to do away with him (or so he hoped). 

The conversation was surprisingly pleasant, Weasley may have been about mentally stable as an albino monk, but his taste in music and books was refreshingly discerning, and the man himself unexpectedly articulate. Still, Draco would be glad when this night was over and he could get back to his well-ordered, Weasley-free existence. 

“Here,” Weasley sat forward in his seat and pointed to a small lay-by on the left side of the road. “Pull in here,” he instructed.

Draco slowed the car and turned off the road. There was a single street light spilling light onto the ground and across the bonnet of the car. Draco switched off the engine and looked out the window, wondering who or what Weasley had come to see. Across the road there was a house, a light shining in one window. There didn’t appear to be any other dwellings on this stretch of road. 

“Right,” Weasley said, releasing his seatbelt and turning to Draco. “I shouldn’t be too long.” And with that, he reached down to the backpack he had stowed between his feet and took out a black balaclava, quickly pulling it over his head until only his eyes and mouth were visible. While Draco was still reeling from the shock of this development – and the realization that he was clearly in way over his head – Weasley opened the passenger door and stepped out of the car. 

Just before he closed the door he leaned back in. “Oh, and keep the engine running,” he said with a disconcerting wink. “We’ll probably want to make a quick getaway.” And he shut the door and walked around the front of the car.

The sound of the door closing shook Draco out of his daze and he frantically lowered his window. “Oh my God,” he shouted. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Weasley, the complete twat that he was, actually had the nerve to roll his eyes at him. Draco was _this_ close to just running him down and driving off (having reversed over the body several times of course).

Weasley walked over to Draco’s window and leaned in. “You might want to keep your voice down,” he said with more than a touch of sarcasm.

Draco barely restrained himself from punching him in the face. “And you,” he said stridently. “Might want to tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Weasley sighed loudly. “Look,” he said. “The less you know about this the better; plausible deniability, my friend, plausible deniability.” And with that the stupid bastard started to cross the road.

Draco leant as far out of his window as he could. “I am not your friend,” he hissed. “And what the fuck do you mean plausible…”

But Weasley was already across the road and leaping over a fence – no sign of his fucking walking stick now – into the field that bordered the house.

Well, fuck.

Apparently, there was a very good chance that Draco was about to be an accessory to a serious crime.

***

Draco screeched up to the pavement outside Weasley’s house, slamming his foot satisfyingly hard on the brake as he did so. He was pleased to note Weasley’s involuntary lurch forward and the indignant hoot that sounded from the stupid _thing_ tucked inside his jacket.

“Get out!” he snarled. He refused to grace Weasley with so much as a look, keeping his eyes firmly trained on the windscreen instead.

“Out, out!” he shouted, when Weasley failed to move quickly enough.

He could sense the other man’s eyes on him but was determined not to look back (looking had got him into quite enough trouble, thank you very much).

Finally, Weasley began to move, reaching down to pick up his backpack and turning to slowly open the door. 

Even without looking, Draco could tell that Weasley’s movements were slower than they’d been at the start of the evening, his actions more awkward. When he was sure he wouldn’t be seen, Draco risked a quick glance at the other man. Weasley had the door open and was shuffling gracelessly out of the car. He held his precious prize close to his chest, but Draco could still see a tuft of white feathers poking up from the man’s jacket. 

Bloody idiot, Draco thought angrily. Clearly leaping over fences, breaking into other people’s property and running after moving cars wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, especially when you’re already a bloody cripple to begin with. But he refused to feel sorry for the bastard. What had he been thinking?

Weasley was out of the car now and was leaning down to talk to Draco. 

Well, fuck that.

Draco leant across, yanked the door closed and drove off.

An owl. 

A stupid, fucking owl.

Weasley was obviously as mad as a box full of frogs and apparently he had started to take Draco down with him. Well, no more.

Okay, so there was a part of Draco that was burning to know. He had always been a curious bastard and it would have been nice to know why Weasley had decided to steal an owl from an animal sanctuary in the middle of the night– because, yeah, that’s exactly what the dumb freak had done.

After Weasley had disappeared into the dark, Draco had seriously considered just driving off. It would have been the only sensible thing to do, right? Only a complete moron would think of waiting. 

Draco sighed and hung his head in shame. Okay, so he was a complete fucking moron. Well, he wouldn’t be making that mistake again. He pressed a little harder on the accelerator. 

He could have been home already. He could have been enjoying that nice bottle of red, safe in his own home, far away from beguiling, broken maniacs with ridiculously blue eyes. 

With an owl fetish. 

But, oh no, not him. Not stupid fucking Draco Malfoy. Oh no. Because he just had to know why, didn’t he? Why they were there. Why Weasley was doing something, very probably nefarious, in a field, in the middle of nowhere. 

See? Too fucking curious for his own good. 

And the real kicker? The thing that really stung? Was the why he needed to know. And he knew himself well enough to answer that one. It was because if Weasley was doing anything nefarious in a field anywhere, then – Draco growled under his breath and thumped his head back onto the headrest – God damn it, he wanted it to be _him_. He wanted the infuriating redhead to be doing nefarious things _to him_.

And that was the stupid reason why he had stepped out of his car, walked across the road and risked his entire reputation and future. 

He still wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find in that field (even now, he couldn’t think of anything crazy enough to live up to the reality). There’d been a board with a name and a smaller one with opening times and prices. Then, the smell had hit him, the smell of too many nervous animals penned too closely together. And it all suddenly coalesced to make sense…except for the whole _why_. 

Why was Weasley breaking into an animal sanctuary in the dead of night?

And so, instead of running back to his car and driving away at speed like any sane, normal person, Draco had sat there like some sort of lovelorn prat and waited for Weasley to come back.

Of course, when the deranged lunatic had returned hugging a small, scruffy-looking owl, Draco had soon come to his senses. Because seriously? All this for a fucking _owl_? 

“Hey,” Weasley had said, leaning into Draco’s open window. “Draco meet Pig.” And he had held out the most woe-begotten excuse for a bird that Draco had ever seen.

Something had snapped then. Something deep inside of Draco had just gone _ping_ and that was it for him. He’d given Weasley one last scathing look, before pressing his foot down on the accelerator and driving off. Unfortunately, the only other car out on the road that night, had decided to drive past at that exact moment, and Draco had been forced to wait before pulling out onto the road. Weasley, the cunning bastard, had seized the chance to run after the car and had jumped into the passenger seat.

The drive back had been a damn sight more awkward than the trip out (and Draco really didn’t think he’d ever be saying that). Neither man had spoken. To begin with Draco had been worried that Weasley might try to engage him in conversation and had been determined to shoot the mad bastard down. And well, truth be known, he’d actually been a bit put out that Weasley had seemed to be as pissed off with him as he had been with the redhead. 

Things had grown even more awkward shortly after, when Draco had realized that he had no idea where the other man lived. He had briefly flirted with the idea of just dumping him on the side of the road – God knew the git deserved it – but he’d been a little worried that the stubborn bastard might refuse to get out of the car, and then, they would have had yet another embarrassing standoff and Draco really hadn’t thought his head would cope with another one of those. So, having grudgingly asked Weasley where he’d wanted to be dropped, Draco had then had to tolerate the other man’s bad tempered snapped out orders – _right here, left now, no, the **other left**_ – and by the time he’d pointed out his house, Draco had been about two minutes from setting the arsehole on fire (he hadn’t been sure what with – he had no matches or a lighter – but he’d been pretty sure that he’d find some fucking way to do it; maybe he’d snap the fucker’s walking stick in two and rub the bits together).

Now, as he made his way back towards his own flat – and sanity – he expected to feel some sort of relief, but his shoulders still felt tense and his jaw was beginning to ache from how tightly he was clenching it. Christ, what was it about this bastard that got to him so much? There was just something. Something sharp and brittle, pricking at his skin, whenever he was near Weasley. Well, he was done with it. 

This, of course, was the moment he looked in his rearview mirror and spotted Weasley’s walking stick lying across the back seat. And Draco wanted to drive the car into the nearest fucking wall, because he could lie to himself all he wanted, but it wouldn’t change the fact that the rush of long-awaited relief he’d been expecting to feel ever since he’d driven _away_ from Weasley, suddenly hit him with enough force to take his breath away. Now he could go back, now he had a reason to see Weasley again. Oh, thank God for that, because it was suddenly clear as bloody crystal to Draco that he couldn’t bear the thought of driving away forever from the ridiculous man. He carefully pulled over on the side of the road and took a few deep breaths, trying to gather his thoughts while his pulse slowly returned to normal.

Okay, so Draco's body clearly thought that he and Weasley had unfinished business. Well, he could work with that. Sleeping with the bloke wouldn’t exactly be an ordeal (certain parts of his body were, in fact, so on board with that particular idea that they were currently making a very valiant attempt to stand up and cheer their support). Maybe, Draco just needed to get it – him – out of his system with a good, hard shag (oh, yeah, certain parts of his body really, really supported that idea – with streamers, whistles and possibly banners). Draco reached down and carefully adjusted his trousers before restarting the car. He checked his rearview mirror before pulling out and couldn’t help grinning when he caught sight of the stick again. After all, what sort of terrible person would Draco be if he failed to return his walking stick to the poor man? 

***

Draco parked the car outside Weasley’s house. He hadn’t looked at it before, too busy being pissed off to care where the moron lived, but he took a moment now to examine it. It was a bungalow, which seemed odd for such a young man; Draco had always considered bungalows to be more of an old person's thing. He glanced up and down the road. It was English suburbia encapsulated: neat gardens, Volvos in the driveways, identical bungalows on both sides of the wide, tree-lined street. Draco guessed the average age of the residents would be somewhere in the region of ninety-two if Weasley hadn’t fucked up the demographic. Why would he choose to live here? It was Draco’s idea of hell – even now he could feel the sick, cold horror of zip-up tartan slippers creeping over his skin. Urgh. 

Draco shook himself to rid his head of the hideous image that had stolen into his brain. He turned quickly and grabbed Weasley’s stick off the back seat; the sooner he got off the street the better. Holding the stick in his hand, he was surprised at the weight of it; he’d expected it to be much lighter and for the first time he found himself wondering why Weasley needed it. Maybe it was odd that he hadn’t thought about it sooner but, then, given the somewhat exciting chain of events that had constituted his life since meeting Weasley perhaps it wasn’t so surprising; after all, it’s not as though he'd had the time. But he paused to think about it now. What had happened to Weasley to cause the limp? Was it a recent injury that would soon be completely healed? Or was it something more serious, more long-lasting? And, possibly most importantly of all, would it affect his shagging ability? Draco grinned; time to find out. 

When Weasley opened his front door, it wasn’t the surge of lust that surprised Draco (he’d been aware of his attraction to the man since the moment he’d seen him) but the sudden spike of something else, something he couldn’t put a name to. Whatever it was, he had to assume that it was that which halted his original plan (much as the thought of pushing Weasley up against the nearest solid surface still appealed) and made him feel the suddenly unprecedented need to go slow. He also began to suspect that he might never get his fill of just looking at the useless bastard. 

Weasley had changed his clothes since Draco had dropped him off. He was now dressed in soft-looking sleep pants and a ratty old t-shirt. Not much to grab the attention you would think but…the pants hung low on his narrow hips, leaving a tantalizing sliver of skin showing, while the shirt was loose about the neck, enough to reveal a pale, freckled collarbone. And his feet were bare. Draco would never have pegged himself as a feet man. Huh. There was just something vulnerable and exposed about Weasley in that moment and it left Draco dry-mouthed and feeling fluttery inside. 

Oh for fuck’s sake. Draco needed to get the hell out of there. The stupid twat had him sounding like a bloody romance novel in his own head. 

“Hey,” Weasley’s voice was soft and tired sounding. 

And Draco suddenly knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

***

Weasley’s kitchen was both better than Draco had hoped, and worse than he could possibly have imagined.

“Do you know that you have a rat sitting on your counter?” He asked in horrified fascination.

Weasley paused in filling the kettle at the sink. “Oh,” he said smiling. “Yeah, that’s Scabbers.”

“Of course it is,” Draco deadpanned. Weasley didn’t seem to notice.

“You can stroke him if you like,” Weasley continued cheerfully. “He doesn’t bite.”

Draco stared for a long moment at the back of the other man’s head; he really shouldn’t be allowed out alone. The only way Draco would be stroking that filthy piece of vermin would be with a very sharp knife (or maybe a cheese grater). He was beginning to rethink accepting a drink, God knows what might be lurking in the bottom of the cup.

He was distracted from his thoughts by a _hoot_ from the corner of the room. When he turned to look, he saw the little owl that Weasley had stolen earlier sitting on a perch. It was giving him a very superior look which Draco thought a little much in the circumstances. After all, if it wasn’t for him the stupid thing would still be locked up with no hope of parole. A little more gratitude wouldn’t go amiss…and oh God, Weasley’s insanity was clearly catching.

“Here.” Weasley was holding out a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Draco rolled his eyes disdainfully. Really, what was he, ten...ooh marshmallows.

Draco stepped forward to take the cup and as his fingers brushed against Weasley’s he was suddenly reminded of his reason for coming back. He put the cup down on the kitchen table at his side and then reached for Weasley’s cup, removing it from the other man’s unresisting grip, he placed it next to his own. He was pretty sure that they were on the same page here but it was still a relief when Weasley didn’t protest as he stepped closer, invading his personal space. Draco placed his hands on Weasley’s hips, his thumbs stroking gently over the exposed skin there. He was about to move closer still, but then he suddenly remembered something else.

“Why do you need the stick?” he asked looking into Weasley’s eyes. The other man was a few inches taller and Draco found it strangely exhilarating having to angle his head upwards (he’d never been with someone taller than himself before). 

For a moment Draco thought he’d made a terrible mistake as he felt Weasley’s whole body go tense, but then, the redhead suddenly lurched forward, pressing their mouths together, and well, if this was Weasley’s way of avoiding the question, then who the fuck cared about a stupid bloody stick anyway?

***

When he woke the next morning, Draco had to take a minute or two to remember where he was, the room so unlike his own; clean, stark lines of black and glass replaced by the more muted, earthy tones of mismatched furniture and what looked like hideous homemade cushions. Yeah, he was definitely in Weasley’s room. He supposed he should be grateful there wasn’t a goat grazing in the corner.

Weasley himself was absent, the sheet next to Draco cold to the touch. Shit, what time was it? 

Draco reached across to where he’d thrown his watch the previous night. Oh fuck, he was supposed to be in a meeting with Snape in half an hour and he still needed to get home, shower and change his clothes. He was going to kill Weasley when he got his hands on him (and really he couldn’t possibly be blamed for the further five minutes he lost fondly reminiscing about exactly how good his hands had felt when they _had_ been on Weasley). 

When he finally managed to haul himself out of his thoughts and bed, he retrieved his clothes from the various places that they were strewn about the room and hastily dressed. Emerging from the bedroom, he wandered into the kitchen in the vague hope that he might find Weasley there making coffee. But there was no sign of the other man and Draco was forced to accept that coffee would probably have to wait until he got to the office. He would call Pansy from the car and make sure she had a pot ready for when he arrived, or there was no way he was going to make it through the day. 

He felt strangely wrong-footed by Weasley’s absence. He’d envisaged having to sneak out this morning, lest the other man wake and embarrass them both by begging Draco to stay. Now, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Weasley had perhaps had a similar thought and he felt downright affronted by the idea. Stupid man. Did he really think Draco would cling, refuse to leave until Weasley agreed to another date or something equally obnoxious? It was bloody insulting and Draco hoped Weasley broke his neck in a freak accident and that his dying thought would be of Draco and how badly he’d wronged him. And with that he left the house, slamming the door as loud as he could behind him.

***

When Draco emerged from his meeting with Snape, his foul mood had reached strangling orphans and setting their puppies alight proportions, so that stupid flippy thing his stomach did when he walked out of Snape’s office and saw Weasley sitting on Pansy’s desk (and really, did the man even know what chairs were for?) was definitely caused by irritation and nothing else. 

The fact that he stopped to let his eyes roam freely for a moment or two also meant nothing. The man’s fashion sense was abysmal; black jeans and a fisherman’s jumper. How plebeian. The jeans didn’t even look all that clean and were clearly worn thin in several places (places that he really ought to stop looking at before Pansy caught him).

He dragged his eyes reluctantly upwards but sadly it was too late. Pansy was already grinning at him. Draco narrowed his eyes, making a mental note to fire her again later (it would be the fifth time this week).

Weasley was still turned towards Pansy, leaning down and talking animatedly to her. Draco was beginning to suspect that the git would flirt with anything with a pulse (although actually the pulse was probably optional, he was just as likely to flirt with a lamp-post; of course, the really depressing thing was that recent evidence suggested that the lamp-post would, in all likelihood, go home with him). Draco hoped he wasn’t there to ask for another lift; he eyed the objects on the desk, a stapler wouldn’t have been his first weapon of choice but he was willing to improvise. Just then, Weasley seemed to realise that he no longer had Pansy’s full attention and looked over his shoulder at Draco.

“Hey, Draco,” he said smiling warmly.

And Draco decided he was just going to ignore the flare of heat that hit the bottom of his spine at the sound of his name on Weasley’s lips (after all, given what they’d been doing the last time Weasley had said it, it wasn’t entirely surprising that his body would react in such a way, probably a sense memory or something). He didn’t reply, casting the man a quick dismissive glance, before walking to the coffee machine on the counter behind Pansy’s desk.

He poured some coffee, all the while trying to contain his fury. Who the fuck did Weasley think he was? Leaving him high and dry this morning – not even a coffee – and then he had the audacity to turn up at Draco’s office to flirt with his stupid bint of a secretary. He took a fortifying mouth full of coffee – of very, very hot coffee. Fuck. He swallowed painfully and tried not to whimper. 

“I’m very disappointed with you, Draco.”

Oh, Weasley could just fuck off. Because really? And Draco’s stupid, bloody body really needed to get a grip and stop reacting to Weasley’s annoying voice. He gripped the cup tighter, trying to resist the temptation to turn and hurl it at the man’s head.

“Why did you rush off this morning?”

Oh my God, was he serious? Draco whirled around, sloshing coffee everywhere, but barely noticing.

“Are you taking the piss?” he asked angrily. “It was you who buggered off and left me lying there, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Weasley smiled and shook his head. “Is he always like this?” he asked Pansy.

Pansy reached out and placed her hand on Weasley’s thigh (his _thigh_ ; she was so fired and this time he would make sure it stuck). “Oh no,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s usually much, much worse. He must like you,” she continued with a sly wink.

“Draco,” Weasley stood up as he spoke and limped over to him. “I left you a note on the fridge. Didn’t you read it?”

“Why the hell would I read anything stuck to your bloody fridge? I wanted coffee, Weasley, not a pithy remark on a fucking fridge magnet.”

“Well,” Weasley said stepping closer. “If you had read it, then you would have known to wait just a little longer, then you would have got your coffee, fresh croissants and…,” he was close enough to whisper into Draco’s ear now, “maybe a repeat performance.”

Draco’s legs had not done anything so asinine as turning to jelly, so when he sat down on the edge of the counter it was merely to move away from Weasley (the fact that his legs had automatically spread wider so that Weasley could move in even closer, pretty much belied this, but Draco was fucked if he was admitting it).

“Yes, well,” he said feeling flustered and all too aware of Pansy’s hawk-like scrutiny. “Some of us had work to get to.” He was trying to hold onto his anger but it was difficult with Weasley standing so close and smiling like a demented idiot. And God, he needed to get him out of there quickly, before Snape came out and caught them doing something very inappropriate in front of Pansy and the poor innocent coffee machine.

He stood up abruptly and Weasley took a startled step backward.

“Pansy,” he snapped. “Cancel the rest of my meetings this morning. I need to discuss something urgently with Mr Weasley.”

And he took hold of Weasley’s arm and led him into his office. He shut the door and turned the lock, and then he closed the blinds. Weasley, he was pleased to note, looked decidedly nervous when he looked back at him. Good. He should be nervous. Draco planned to climb him like a tree. He took a step forward fully intending to implement this plan when someone rattled the door handle loudly. Urgh. He was going to fucking kill Pansy.

“Malfoy, why is your door locked?”

Shit, it was Snape. For a moment Draco was frozen in place, staring helplessly at Weasley.

“Open this door _now_.” The command was accompanied by a loud thump on the door that Draco suspected had a damn sight more to do with Snape’s foot than with his knuckles.

Draco turned and opened the door quickly, stepping back to let Snape stride into the room.

Snape looked around the room suspiciously before settling his glare on Draco.

“Do you mind explaining why you felt it necessary to lock yourself into your office with –,” he paused to turn his head and cast an imperious look at Weasley, “this gentleman.” The way in which he said the word ‘gentleman’ made it very clear that he actually meant quite the opposite.

Draco’s mind raced to come up with a plausible explanation but before he could offer any sort of excuse, Weasley stepped forward and spoke.

“And who the hell are you?” he asked angrily.

There was a moment when Draco thought he might pass out as he watched his professional life flash before his eyes. What the fuck did Weasley think he was doing?

Snape looked like he couldn’t quite believe what the other man had said either but he soon recovered, turning to face Weasley fully, he narrowed his eyes before answering. “I am Severus Snape, the senior partner in this company,” he snapped out. “And who, may I ask, are you?” 

Draco expected – no hoped – that Weasley would realise that there was no way back from here and would just get out of there with minimal damage. But he had seriously underestimated the man.

“Weasley,” Ron said glaring right back at Snape. “Ron Weasley,” he paused, folding his arms and widening his stance. “Of Weasley Wizard Wheezes.” 

Oh. Draco did not know that.

And Snape clearly didn't either. He wasn’t obvious, Draco had to give him that, but he also knew the man well enough to recognise the moment that he connected the dots; there was a slight dip in his shoulders and the sneer that had been painted on his face morphed into what could loosely be called a smile (though it could also have doubled up quite comfortably as a grimace). 

“I was just discussing a possible ad campaign with Mr Malfoy and I requested that he lock the door,” Weasley continued. “I prefer not to be interrupted when I’m considering spending thousands of pounds of my family’s money. Of course, your very rude entry means Mr Malfoy’s efforts have been somewhat wasted.”

Oh dear God, Draco wanted to kiss Weasley until his lips fell off. Snape looked like he had swallowed a lemon. Draco closed his eyes for a moment, he really wanted to commit this image to memory (then, when he was living on the streets because Severus Snape had destroyed all he loved in life, he could take it out and huddle around it for warmth). 

Snape took a step towards Weasley, and adopting his most ingratiating expression, he held out his hand. “Please accept my apology, I didn’t realise this was a business meeting,” he said. When it became clear that Weasley was ignoring his outstretched hand, he dropped it and turned to Draco. “You didn’t mention this appointment earlier, Draco,” he said sounding decidedly less ingratiating.

Once again, Draco didn’t get a chance to reply. Weasley walked over to him, placed his hand on his shoulder and turned back to Snape. “Please don’t try to pass the blame for your appalling manners onto Mr Malfoy,” he said crossly. 

Snape looked momentarily taken aback but rallied enough to open his mouth. He got no further.

“So,” Weasley went on sounding increasingly irate. “Am I to take it, that you are only courteous to those you consider prospective clients?”

As a startled Snape stood gaping in disbelief, Weasley turned his back on him and addressed his next remark to Draco. 

“Mr Malfoy I am sorry that we won’t be able to work together,” he said sounding regretful. “I was very impressed by your presentation,” he went on. “If only all your colleagues were as professional as yourself.” This last was said with a very pointed glance back at Snape. And then he walked out, winking at Draco as he passed him.

Draco was torn between amusement and abject terror; Snape’s stricken face was positively hilarious but the furious reaction that was sure to follow in its wake probably wouldn’t be quite so funny. 

***

Eight hours later, Draco parked his car outside Weasley’s house. He didn’t get out straight away; he had something to do first. He leaned forward and looked up at the starlit sky through the windscreen.

“I’m beginning to see why they nailed You to a piece of wood,” he said conversationally. 

Draco had been raised Catholic and although he no longer practised (for, as he was fond of saying, if he hadn’t got it right by now, then really, what was the point?) it had left him with a tendency to treat God a little like an old friend who had drifted away and now only ever turned up when He wanted to borrow money or needed somewhere to crash (as well as a propensity for capitalising pronouns; the good sisters of St Francis Xavier’s would be proud). 

“Also,” he added. “I hereby vow to never again say ‘well, at least things can’t get any worse.’” He supposed if he lived in America then he would have just bought a gun by now and shot himself in the foot, miss out the middle man as it were. He sighed and looked out the window at Weasley’s house. There were no lights in the windows. God, he hoped Weasley was in. 

He hadn’t been able to get the other man out of his head all day. The way he had stood up to Snape had been enlightening to say the least. Up to that point, Draco had thought of Weasley in a fairly superficial manner – let’s face it, Draco had seen a lovely package and hadn’t really thought or cared about what was inside. But seeing him getting all CEO on Snape’s arse had ripped open all sorts of different emotions. And well, he’d been pretty much semi-hard ever since.

Draco picked up the bottle of red wine he’d brought with him. Okay, time to rock Weasley’s world.

***

“I have had the day from hell,” Draco declared petulantly.

“Have you eaten?” Weasley sounded both annoyingly unsurprised by his sudden appearance and completely unconcerned by his words. Draco had never wanted to stamp his foot more in his life. He sulkily followed the other man into the kitchen.

“I’m not hungry,” he snapped grumpily.

“Tough,” Weasley replied indifferently. “Because I’ve just made dinner and as usual I’ve totally miscalculated the spaghetti, so you’ll have to have some. Here lay the table.” And he held out an assortment of cutlery.

Draco would really have much rather have laid something else, but now that he’d smelled the spaghetti sauce, his stomach seemed intent on proving the lie to his earlier assertion. He put the bottle of wine down on the table and snatched the forks and spoons moodily from Weasley’s hand.

By the time he’d finished setting out the cutlery, Weasley had already loaded up two plates with spaghetti and sauce and was bringing them over. He placed them down on the table and then returned to the counter, coming back a minute later with a tray of garlic bread. Draco, resigned to his fate and hungrily eyeing the food, graciously poured the wine. 

Neither of them talked for the first few mouthfuls, too intent on filling their stomachs. Draco hadn’t realised how famished he was until the first taste of sauce had hit his tongue and then he couldn’t stop shovelling mouthful after mouthful of the delicious food into his mouth.

When he was finally satisfied enough to pause for a sip of wine, he looked up to find Weasley looking at him with an amused smirk on his face.

“Not hungry, huh?” he said nodding smugly. “Well, I’d hate to see you when you _were_ hungry.”

Draco would have rolled his eyes and said something suitably snippy in reply, but his stomach was far too happy to spoil the mood. Thankfully, it seemed that Weasley had been brought up to respect the sanctity of dinner, so it wasn’t until both of their plates were empty and Draco was gazing greedily at the last piece of garlic bread, that he spoke again.

“So,” he said smiling warmly at Draco. “Tell me all about your shitty day.”

Draco’s first impulse was to tell him to fuck off, but then he realised that actually, that was the precise reason why he’d come over here in the first place. When it had all gone to shit earlier, he had driven home and sat in his flat, looking at stupid, worthless awards on dusty shelves and blank televisions, and he had longed for Weasley and his tatty furniture. And before he’d really understood what had happened, he’d found himself outside the other man’s house.

“It’s all your fault,” he said miserably. “I got fired.”

“Oh, shit,” Weasley said sitting up and looking horror struck. “I’m so sorry, Draco. I thought pulling that superior business shit would help get Snape to appreciate you more, not get you the sack. Christ, I feel terrible.” And he ran his hands through his hair.

And God help him but Draco just wanted to drag him off to bed and never let him up again. He’d liked smug, sarcastic had been sexy, but regretful and sorry was just downright irresistible. He fought the urge to keep that look on Weasley’s face for a while longer.

“No, you moron,” he said eventually. “You didn’t get me fired. You were right. Snape was so desperate to win back your business that he told me that you were now my priority.” He paused to smile back at Weasley’s ridiculous grin, because yeah, such a hardship. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that you owned the largest chain of toy shops in the country.” Actually Draco couldn’t believe he hadn’t made the connection himself; it’s not as though ‘Weasley’ was a common name; he blamed Weasley’s shoulders, they were very distracting.

The grin fell from Weasley’s face. “I don’t,” he said sullenly. “My family owns it and I have nothing to do with them or their business anymore.”

“But, you said –,”

“I know what I said, Draco,” Weasley interrupted. “I was trying to get Snape off your back, that’s all. So if you’re here to try to sign up Weasley Wizard Wheezes then you’re wasting your time.” And he started to stand up.

“Oh, sit down,” Draco snapped. And to his surprise Weasley did (typical, now he starts listening to him). “I don’t care about your family business, personal or otherwise. Weren’t you listening? I said I was fired. Why would I still be trying to win business for Snape? I hope that bastard gets eaten by a giant snake – from the feet upwards.”

Weasley smiled at that and Draco felt something tight uncoil in his chest.

“I’m here because I wanted to see you. Granted now I’m here I have no fucking clue why.” Draco smiled the sting out of his words and Weasley broke into a grin.

“Okay, you whiny git,” Weasley said. “So hurry up and tell me why you got fired, so we can get to the cheering-you-up-with-sex part of the evening.”

Draco suddenly decided sharing was over-rated and thought maybe they should just skip the whole shitty day bit and move onto the cheering him up bit.

“Oh no you don’t,” Weasley said, clearly recognising the glint in Draco’s eye. “I want the gory details first or no orgasms for anyone.”

Draco pouted, undecided as to whether his day had just got worse or better; on the one hand orgasm denial, on the other hand definitely the suggestion of orgasms later. 

“Oh, stop sulking,” Weasley said shaking his head. “If you tell me why you were fired, I promise to do that thing with my tongue again, you know the one that made you squeak.” 

Draco stopped sulking. He smiled widely at Weasley. His day had most definitely just got better. He was still smiling at Weasley a couple of minutes later, which was probably why Weasley kicked him but Draco still considered it unnecessary, bastard could have just cleared his throat or something else less violent. But okay, he probably had a point.

“It was that fucker De Mort,” Draco said, suddenly sobering at the memory.

“Who?” asked Weasley looking confused.

“Thomas Vol De Mort, the American cereal king,” he replied with a touch of impatience. He supposed he should excuse Weasley’s ignorance – it’s not like Draco had heard of him either before last month when he’d been presented with his shiny new account and tasked with selling the latest unnecessary, unwanted addition to an already saturated cereal market. But, as already stated, it had been a pretty shitty day and he wasn’t exactly known for his patience even on his best days.

“So, this De Mort got you fired?”

“Yes.”

“Draco, what did you do?”

Draco huffed in annoyance. “Why do you assume that I must have done something? Maybe, the bastard just had it in for me.”

Weasley just raised his eyebrows at that.

“It’s true,” he continued sulkily. “And he definitely didn’t like my presentation.”

“Your presentation?”

“Oh, my God, is there an echo in here? Yes, yes my fucking presentation.” Draco stood up and leant across the table. “See?” he said pointing accusingly. “Your fault.”

Weasley scrunched up his face in confusion. “Okay,” he said. “I am officially lost. How is any of that my fault?”

Draco flopped back down in his seat and folded his arms moodily. “Because you’re a fucking distracting bastard who turns up uninvited and drags people away from their work to go frolicking in fields.”

Weasley grinned at him. “You didn’t frolic anywhere. You sat in the car and sulked,” he said.

“Fuck off,” Draco responded. “The point being that you took me away from work I should have been doing on that presentation, which meant I had to wing it today and possibly did not give of my best.”

Weasley shrugged. “Leaving aside the whole issue of blame, surely Snape didn’t fire you just because it was a crappy presentation?” he asked incredulously.

Draco narrowed his eyes at him. “Once again, fuck off,” he snapped. “I didn’t say it was crappy; it might have lacked my usual touch of genius but it was still fucking brilliant. De Mort didn’t like it because he’s an unimaginative fuckwit.”

Weasley started laughing. “Let me guess, you told him that didn’t you?”

“Some words may have been exchanged.” Draco didn’t think it was necessary to elaborate (or include any of the hand gestures he also may or may not have made). 

“Oh, Draco,” Weasley was doubled over now, laughing loudly. “You are truly one of a kind.”

“Yes, well,” Draco said trying to sound stern, while his own lips twitched at the corners. “That may well be, but I am also very depressed about the whole episode and therefore need lots of cheering up.” He looked over at Weasley for a moment. “Lots and lots of cheering up with added tongue,” he elaborated staring hungrily at Weasley’s lips. 

Weasley stopped laughing and smiled. “Come here,” he said.

Draco went.

***

Later, after they had finally made it into the lounge, Weasley paused in the process of trying to get his hands down the front of Draco’s trousers.

“Oh, by the way,” he said. “Your key is on the shelf over there.”

Draco was still preoccupied with pushing Weasley’s shirt out of his way so he could tongue at his nipples so it took his brain a few seconds to parse what the other man had said. Once he’d managed to arrange the words in the right order he dragged his gaze reluctantly away from Weasley’s lovely chest.

“What are you babbling on about?” he asked impatiently. “My Key? What do you mean, my key?” He really wanted to get his mouth back on Weasley.

“To the house of course,” Weasley said casually.

Of course? What was the idiot going on about? And why had he stopped doing that thing with his thumb?

“Why would I need a key to your house?” He asked exasperated. “Also, get your hand back down my pants.”

Weasley huffed out a laugh but did as he was told. “To get in,” he continued a minute later. “I’m not answering the door every time you knock. And what if I’m not here?”

Weasley’s clever hands were really making it very difficult to concentrate. “What makes you think that I’ll be coming around again?” Draco panted out. 

Weasley did something particularly amazing with his wrist and Draco let out a long groan. “Oh, you’re definitely coming around again.” Weasley laughed into Draco’s neck and Draco seized the opportunity to lower his head and capture Weasley’s lips. He sincerely hoped the talking portion of the evening was now over. But the bastard pulled away after a few moments and continued the ridiculous conversation. At least he had the decency to keep moving his hand this time.

“Sorry,” Weasley said, and Draco thought you bloody should be. “I may have jumped ahead a little.” Then he grinned and Draco was torn between humping his leg and head butting him. “Okay,” he went on, and, oh God, he removed his wonderful hand. Draco was going to fucking bludgeon him with his fucking owl. “Sorry, I should have asked first. Draco, will you move in with me for the next month?”

Draco didn’t respond straight away. His mind was currently too busy trying to will Weasley’s hand back to where it had been. As it became obvious that he didn’t in fact possess Jedi mind control, he began to rub himself up against Weasley’s leg; it wasn’t as nice as having his hand on him but it would have to do until the fuckwit stopped jabbering on about keys and moving in and – oh my God.

He jumped up and off the sofa. “Oh my God!” he shouted. “You’re a bunny boiler!”

Weasley started laughing. “No, I’m not,” he said sitting up. And Draco refused to be distracted by how adorable he looked all dishevelled and very nearly (so fucking nearly, the bastard) debauched.

“Yes,” he spat out, his voice increasingly shrill. “Yes, you are.” He pointed at Weasley. “You’re Glenn Close and I should have known. The way you stalked me and – and pursued me.” He was pacing now, running his hands frantically through his hair. “It was all planned out, wasn’t it? You’ve probably been watching me for months. That’s how you knew where I lived.”

Weasley shifted until he was sitting on the edge of the sofa. “Have you finished?” he asked. When Draco just glared at him, he went on. “I didn’t stalk you and nothing was planned. God, inflated ego much, Draco? Pansy told me where you lived when I called her on the number _you_ gave me. Were you listening? I said a _month_ , live with me for _one month_.”

Draco paused in his pacing. “Why?” he asked perplexed. “Why would you want me here for one month?”

Weasley shrugged. “I think it would be good for you,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Oh, and I’m the one with the inflated ego?” Draco put his hands on his hips and gave him a very pointed look.

“I don’t mean it like that.” Weasley ran a hand through his hair looking frustrated. Draco was pleased that at last the other man seemed to be losing some of his irritating calm too. “This is always the hardest bit,” Weasley added.

Something struck Draco then. “Always?” he said suspiciously. Draco didn’t like the sound of that. “Is this something you do a lot then?” he asked nastily. “Ask random men to live with you for a month?”

Weasley sighed like this had come up before (and Draco really didn’t like the sound of that). “Well, they’re not random but other than that yes, that’s exactly what I do.”

Draco slumped down into the armchair. “Okay, I’m really not getting this.” And he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to. 

It was Weasley’s turn to stand now. He straightened his clothes and then took a step towards Draco’s chair. “I’ll try to explain,” he said carefully. “Sometimes I meet someone who seems to have lost their way; someone who could perhaps do with a friend to help them find the right path again.”

Draco shot up out of his seat again at that. “Oh my God,” he shouted. “You’re a Jehovah’s Witness, or Scientologist, or some other strange cultist and you’re going to try and brainwash me into marrying you, and then committing suicide in a field somewhere with ten thousand other nutters.” His voice had grown progressively more strident as he went on.

Weasley shook his head. “Draco,” he said softly. “I think you might be watching too much television. This has got nothing to do with religion. I see people who need help and I help them. And that’s it. God doesn’t get a say in it. You don’t have to believe that now, I understand, it’s a lot to take in. But I would like you to consider my proposal.” And he smiled at Draco.

Draco sat down again and thought about what Weasley had said. It all sounded a bit odd, but then, what hadn’t been odd since he’d met Weasley? 

“Why a month?” he asked curiously.

“It’s long enough to make a difference, but short enough not to get too serious.”

And why did Draco feel a pang of regret at hearing that? Surely he should be relieved? So why did he hate the thought that there’d been others before him? 

“How long have you been doing this?” He had to ask but he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.

Weasley sat down on the sofa. “A while,” he answered in a soft voice, barely above a whisper.

And Draco suddenly felt angry again. “That’s no answer,” he spat.

He expected an equally angry retort from Weasley, but he spoke in the same soft voice as before. “It’s all the answer you’re going to get.”

Neither man spoke for several minutes.

One thought was going round and round in Draco’s head and finally he had to voice it. “Do you sleep with everyone you offer this to?” he asked bleakly.

Weasley shrugged and looked down at the carpet. “Does it matter?” 

And yes, it did, it really did, but Draco wasn’t ready to admit that to himself yet, let alone Weasley, so he said nothing. There was one more thing he needed to know.

“Are – are you a prostitute?” he asked hesitantly.

“I don’t know,” Weasley said looking up. “Are you going to pay me for last night?"

“No!”

“Guess not then.” And the bastard actually grinned. 

Draco’s mother once accused him of being emotionally stunted and wondered if she was to blame for not holding him more as a baby. Well, he wished she could have witnessed his rollercoaster ride of emotions over the last thirty-six hours (and was it really only that long since he’d met Weasley?). He was probably having some sort of breakdown. He was definitely going a bit loopy because Weasley’s ludicrous scheme was beginning to sound reasonable. He did wonder though…

“Why do you think I need your help?” 

Weasley’s smile turned sad. “You’re not happy, Draco. Not just having a bad day, money’s tight, just split up with someone kind of not happy. But deep down, bone weary, is this really all there is kind of unhappy. And that’s not right. Everyone deserves to be happy.”

“Bullshit,” he retorted. “I can think of at least two people who deserve to be miserable for the rest of their snivelling, snotting lives.”

Weasley smiled wider. “Seriously, Draco, I will never get tired of your colourful vocabulary.” He shook his head. “Okay, well _you_ deserve to be happy. And I’d like for you to give me one month of your life to help you get there.”

The little shit sounded so sincere and Draco could feel his resolve crumbling.

“And what do you get out of it?” he asked at last (and half wondered if this was the moment that Weasley would whip out a brochure and try to sell him a time share in The Maldives).

Weasley looked at him for a long moment before answering. “Seeing you happy,” he finally said. 

Draco really wanted those lips back on his, wanted his own on Weasley - and those hands down his pants - and a thousand other things that he couldn’t put into words. 

And well, it all came down to this: would it be so bad? He’d already lost his job, so that wasn’t a consideration. He had enough saved that he could easily afford to take a month off. He could spend the time thinking out his next career move. And in the meantime, get to shag Weasley on a regular basis. 

“Okay,” he said. “One month. But for the record, you are one fucking weird bloke and if I end up as a skin suit I will not be happy.”

Weasley stood up and walked over to Draco. “Yeah, Draco," he said with a wry shake of his head. " _I’m_ the weird one.” He held out his hand. “Now, are you going to take me to bed, or what?”

And, well, Draco really couldn’t argue with that.

***

Waking up for the second time in Weasley’s bed was a very different experience from the first. 

He was alone again – apparently he would have to add ‘morning person’ to Weasley’s ever growing list of annoying traits – but this time when he reached his hand across to the empty side of the bed it was still warm, and he rolled over into the space, burying his head into the other man’s pillow with a contented sigh.

Draco had no idea what time it was and he really didn’t care. It was a novel feeling. Even on the one day a week that he usually managed to resist going into the office, he always rose early so he could get as much work done as possible at home. If you had asked him yesterday how he’d feel waking up to the prospect of no work for the foreseeable future, he probably wouldn’t have been able to answer for the overwhelming wave of panic closing up his throat and choking him. But now, lying in the warmth, surrounded by Weasley’s lingering scent, he could quite sincerely say he didn’t give a fuck. And with that, he closed his eyes again and drifted back into sleep.

When he next awoke, the room was lighter and he could hear faint sounds coming from the kitchen. He hoped this meant coffee and croissants and not that someone had broken in and was robbing Weasley blind.

He got out of bed and looked around for his clothes. There was no sign of them. He wondered if perhaps Weasley had hung them up and was relieved at the thought; that was a bloody expensive suit and while he hadn’t given much thought to its continued well-being when Weasley had been pulling it off him (well, really who would?), he preferred thinking about it hanging in a closet, rather than crumpled up all over Weasley’s bedroom floor. 

Draco walked over to the large walnut wardrobe standing in the corner of the room (it looked like the sort of outdated monstrosity that had strange, mystical lands growing in the back). He opened the door and peered inside. There was nothing in there that resembled anything Draco would ever dream of wearing – he was going to have to have a serious talk with Weasley about his clothing choices, and possibly take him shopping (the thought of treating the other man like his own personal dress-up doll was rather appealing, the things he could put on those shoulders…). 

He closed the door and looked down at himself. Thankfully, he had put on his boxers again last night when he’d gone to the bathroom, so at least Weasley hadn’t been able to hide _them_ from him – maybe that was Weasley’s plan, to keep him naked and locked in his bedroom for the next month. Draco nodded his head, good plan, he definitely approved. Just then his stomach growled loudly and he decided eating breakfast in his underwear might be fun, especially if he managed to persuade Weasley to strip down too. Grinning happily, he left the room and went in search of food.

He soon lost the grin, however, when he walked into the kitchen and discovered that Weasley wasn’t alone. And he definitely wasn’t smiling when he saw exactly where the other occupant of the room had his hands.

“Am I interrupting?” Draco asked in a cold sneering voice.

This caused the man who had been holding onto Weasley’s hips and nuzzling his neck, to let go and turn to face Draco. Okay, so part one of Draco’s mental plan had been completed; now, if he could just find a spoon to scoop out the bastard’s spleen…

“Oh hey, you’re awake.” Weasley turned then too and smiled at him.

And, damn him, because Draco couldn’t help smiling back. He quickly switched back to a scowl however, when he noticed the other man grinning at him. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your _friend?_ ” Draco asked with a curl of his lip.

Before Weasley could reply, the man in question hooked his chin over Weasley’s shoulder. “This September?” he asked with a knowing smirk.

And Draco thought fuck the spoon, he’d use his hands. Then, Ron walked towards him smiling (oh, _Ron_ now, was it). 

He stood in front of Draco. “Yes,” he said smiling wider. “This is my September.”

And Draco couldn’t help it. He stepped forward, wrapped his hand around Ron’s neck and pulled him to his lips (and if Draco perhaps made a point of lingering, making sure there was plenty of tongue on show, well, nobody else needed to know that).

When he finally pulled back, he immediately looked over Ron’s shoulder with his smuggest smirk and was appalled to be greeted with a gleeful wink. 

“I like him,” the other man said cheerfully. “He’s feisty and definitely prettier than August.”

“Harry, Scabbers is prettier than Viktor,” Ron said. “But yeah," he went on smiling fondly at Draco, " _definitely_ prettier.” 

“Well,” Harry said. “Much as I’d love to stand around here and chat all day, I actually have to get to work.”

He nodded in Draco’s direction. “It was lovely to meet you, September.”

Then, he walked over to Ron and kissed him. On the _mouth_. “See you later, Ron,” he said before heading for the door. “Oh and don’t forget,” he paused at the door. “Dinner tomorrow at 6pm.” And then he was gone.

Draco walked over to the kitchen table and threw himself down into one of the chairs. The _mouth_. And what was that with the hands earlier? Not to mention the _nuzzling_. He wasn’t happy. Not happy at all.

Ron seemed oblivious to his bad mood and moved back to the hob where Draco could now see sausages cooking in a frying pan.

“So,” Draco spat out bitterly. “Who was that? Your pimp?”

Ron laughed as he used a fork to turn the sausages over. “No,” he said with his back still to Draco. “Harry’s my best friend.”

“ _Best_ friend,” Draco said huffily. “Who the fuck even says that over the age of twelve?”

This time Ron didn’t laugh. He put the fork down and turned to face him. “Me, Draco,” he said. “I say it. What is wrong with you? Are you sulking?” 

“No, of course not,” he snapped back. “He just seemed a little handsy for a _friend_.” (Not to mention _lipsy_ – but that just sounded weird).

“Oh my God,” Ron sounded delighted. “You’re jealous,” he said grinning.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco retorted but he could feel his face heating up. 

Ron turned back to his pan and switched off the heat. Then, he turned and walked over to Draco. Reaching down he took hold of Draco’s chair and pulled it around until it was facing him and then he slowly slid down onto Draco’s lap, straddling his thighs. 

“You have nothing to be jealous of,” he said softly, before closing the distance between them and sucking gently on Draco’s bottom lip.

Draco sighed, using his hands on Ron’s hips to pull him closer. Things were just getting really interesting when Ron suddenly moved back and started to laugh. Draco wasn’t impressed. 

“Oh God, I’m sorry,” Ron said when he saw the look on his face. “But it just hit me that if you think Harry’s handsy you’re going to have a heart attack when you meet Seamus.”

Draco did not like the sound of that. “Who the fuck’s Seamus?”

Ron shook his head and smiled. “Wait and see,” he said and then leaned back in.

After a few moments, Draco pulled back. “You distracting me with your tongue isn’t always going to work you know,” he said.

Ron just raised his eyebrows at that and slid to his knees. Okay, so that was probably a lie.

***

It was a while before they got around to eating breakfast but Draco couldn’t really say that he minded the delay. When they had finished and cleared the plates away Draco thought back to what Ron had said earlier.

“So, about this _August_?” he said over the last of his coffee. “What was he like, you know, besides not being pretty?”

Ron looked up from his own cup. “Viktor?” he said. “Viktor had issues. I have to admit he wasn’t my most shining success. Things got complicated pretty early on and I had to ask him to leave.”

“Complicated how?”

“I’m not going to tell you the details, Draco. The guy might have been a bit of a jerk but he still deserves his privacy.” Ron looked at him for a long moment. “Let’s just say he liked to be in charge and didn’t always recognize the importance of safe words, okay?”

As Ron's words sank in, Draco felt suddenly sick. “Oh my God,” he said horrified. “Did he –?” 

But Ron interrupted him before he could get any further. “No,” he said decisively. “I can take care of myself. He just needed to work on his anger issues. I thought I could help him but I was wrong. He needed professional help.”

Draco decided right there and then, that if the bastard ever came near Ron again, then, he personally would make sure that dear Viktor got all the professional help he needed (well, Draco would _pay_ for someone to eviscerate him, so a professional would definitely be involved at some point).

“And before that?” Draco knew he should stop, that digging away at this would inevitably only make it hurt worse, but it was a little like when he was a kid and no matter how many times his mother told him not to pick at the scab… “Was there a July?” he asked trying to sound casual.

Ron frowned at him. “No, Draco. It’s not like I’m obsessive about it, you know.” 

Draco tried to ignore the wave of relief that washed over him on hearing that and shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. “Oh, okay, I just wondered.” 

“There was a March,” Ron added, “but no one else this year.”

Draco swallowed the disappointment that came with that statement. He supposed he should concentrate on the ‘no one else’ part but his brain (or, maybe some other organ) was too hung up on the ‘March’ bit. 

“Oh, March, huh?” he said staring into his coffee cup. “And was he pretty?” Okay, so maybe he was becoming a little obsessed himself. Ron didn’t reply straight away and Draco looked up curiously.

It seemed that was what Ron had been waiting for. He smiled at Draco. “No,” he said. “March wasn’t pretty, Draco. But he was incredibly sweet; sweet and in danger of spending his entire life being overlooked if he was lucky, and trampled all over if he wasn’t.” 

“And you helped him with that?” Draco was surprised to find he was genuinely interested.

Ron didn’t even take any time to think about it. “Yes,” he said. “I think I did.”

Draco thought about that for a few minutes. He wasn’t sure how he felt knowing that Ron’s two previous liaisons (stupid bloody word but what the fuck else should he call them?) had been ugly (harsh, but probably true). His initial relief was giving way to concern. Nothing could make Draco doubt his own attractiveness, so it wasn’t that he thought Ron might view him in similarly unflattering terms. But the fact that Ron was happy to sleep with mingers, as well as Draco, was a little worrisome. Honestly, did the bloke have no standards? 

“Come on, we’re going out”.

Ron’s words broke into his thoughts. Draco looked down at his boxer-clad body. “Really?” he asked.

“Oops,” Ron said, slapping himself on the forehead. “Your clothes. I completely forgot.”

Draco grinned, he liked the idea of Ron forgetting about clothes. It was certainly a look he could get used to, especially on the other man.

Ron got up from the table and walked over to the kitchen counter. He picked up a large plastic bag that was sitting there and came back to the table.

“Here,” he said and handed the bag to Draco.

Draco opened the bag and looked inside. “These aren’t my clothes,” he said. 

“They are while you’re living here.”

Draco's head shot up at that. “And where the fuck is my suit?” he asked fearing the worst. 

“Gone,” Ron said grinning. “Set free.”

Draco dropped the bag on the table and stood up. “You had better be fucking joking,” he said advancing on the other man. “Have you any idea how much that suit cost?”

Ron reached up and pulled him down on to his lap where the sneaky bastard once again proceeded to distract Draco with his tongue.

***

Some time later, they headed out. Draco dressed in a cheap pair of black jeans and a jumper similar to the maroon monstrosity currently adorning his companion. The hideous clothes fit at least, but that was about all Draco could say in their favour. He silently vowed later to scour the house for his suit (there was a sentimental side of him that refused to believe it was really gone for good). 

“Where are we going?” he asked Ron as they strolled along the quiet road. It was a pleasant day, the sun breaking through the few clouds and warming the pavement. Soon autumn would creep in, but until then, it was nice to make the most of these last few days that were clinging stubbornly to summer’s coat-tails.

“You’ll find out when we get there.”

Draco huffed; that was no answer. He hated not knowing where he was going and he had half a mind to stop walking and demand an answer.

“Hey, Argus, how’s things?”

Draco had been so caught up in his inner grumbling that he hadn’t noticed the old man pushing a dilapidated cart at the side of the road. When he did notice him, Draco didn’t think he’d exactly been missing much, and quite honestly, he could have cheerfully gone through life continuing not to see him. 

The man stopped and nodded at Ron. “Good, Ron, good,” he said smiling to reveal a set of truly repulsive teeth. Draco fought the urge to take a step back; Weasley really did know some revolting people. 

“Well, you take it easy,” Ron said and they started walking again.

“You too,” the man said and began to push the cart along. “And thanks again,” he added incongruously.

And that’s when it hit him. Draco stopped and turned to look after the slowly moving figure. 

“Oh, my God!” he shouted. “He’s wearing my suit. He’s fucking wearing my suit.”

He turned back to Ron who was doing a terrible job of trying to keep a straight face. 

“Are you laughing? You are, you’re laughing at me. You utter bastard, you gave that tramp my clothes.”

“They look better on him,” Ron said sniggering.

Draco narrowed his eyes and then rushed him, tackling him to the ground. Ron’s laughter was contagious, and Draco soon lost any vestiges of real anger, as they rolled around until they were both out of breath with laughter.

“Ow, fuck.” Draco reached up to rub his head where something had just struck it. He strained his neck to look behind him and saw a remote control car standing next to his head.

“Hey, Teddy.” Ron sat up and waved to the little boy who was holding the controller in his hands and looking worriedly at Draco. Seriously, did the bloke know everybody?

“Sorry,” the boy said cautiously.

“No worries,” Ron replied cheerfully (which Draco thought was a bit rich given that he wasn’t the one who’d just been brained by a miniature dune buggy). “This is Draco.”

“Really?” And the kid’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. 

Draco rolled his eyes and laid back down on the pavement. It was much too early for this.

***

An hour later and Draco was somewhat surprised to find himself walking towards the beach with Ron. It wasn’t the fact that they were headed to the beach that was surprising - it was a coastal town, after all, and Ron lived on the western most tip, so they were never very far from the sea - nor, was it the fact that he was still in the company of Ron. No, the surprising bit was the presence of the six dogs. The six very big dogs.

“Dog walking?” he asked incredulously. “Your family owns one of the largest and most prominent toy companies in the world, and you spend your days dog walking?”

Ron shrugged his shoulders and smiled as he tried to stop the dogs from pulling him over. “Not all my time,” he said. “Usually just two or three times a week.” 

Draco still thought he was mental. “Well,” he said shaking his head in wonder. “I hope they pay you well for it.”

They’d reached the edge of the sand and Ron knelt down to take the leads off the dogs. “Oh,” he said glancing up at Draco. “I don’t get paid. I just like doing it.”

The dogs were all free now and running towards the sea, barking and yipping at each other excitedly. Ron limped after them, his walking stick digging into the sand as he went.

Draco was momentarily speechless. The man was completely bonkers. Walking. The bloke with the stick and limp spent his spare time _walking_ other people’s dogs…for _fun_. Made perfect sense. If you lived in Weasley’s world (of course, Draco suspected the sky was also pink in Weasley’s world). 

He watched as Ron did his best to run along the edge of the water with the jubilantly barking dogs. He’d dropped his stick and his bad leg dragged behind him as he tried to keep up. But he was laughing, his head thrown back and his face joyful. He looked so happy that it took Draco’s breath away. The dogs were all jumping around him, desperate to get his attention and for a moment Draco knew exactly how they felt. 

Suddenly, one of the largest dogs leapt forward, planting his front paws on Ron’s chest and he was bowled over into the water, coming up a second later wet-through and laughing even louder. 

Draco sighed; completely insane but oh, so fucking sexy.

“Come on, Draco,” Ron shouted over to him.

See? Quite, quite mad.

“No way,” Draco shouted back shaking his head emphatically. “My trousers will get wet.”

“Roll them up, then.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied in a horrified voice. “Think of the creases.”

Afterwards, Ron stripped off his jumper (Draco was dreadfully disappointed about the t-shirt underneath) and flopped down next to where the dogs had spread themselves out on the sand to dry. It was quite disturbing how much Weasley blended in with the canines. Apart from his feet. Draco was definitely developing some sort of fetish. He was fascinated by the delicate bones and faint blue veins and couldn’t tear his eyes away. They were flecked with sand from the walk from the sea to the dunes, and Draco’s hands itched with the need to reach out and brush them clean. He tried to think of something to distract himself.

“Why did you steal that owl?” he asked suddenly. It’s not that Draco hadn’t thought about that whole fiasco since; in fact, one of the things he’d been determined to discover by returning to Weasley had been the why of that one. But somewhere between the first kiss and the last, he’d maybe lost the thread of his original intentions.

Ron lifted his head up and looked over at Draco. “I didn’t steal him,” he said with a frown. “I was rescuing him.”

It was Draco’s turn to frown. “What?” he replied. “So, you were _rescuing_ it from an animal _rescue_ centre?”

Ron sat up, brushing sand from his legs and feet. “That place is a disgrace,” he said snappishly, which surprised Draco; up to now, Ron had always come across as affable – idiotically so sometimes – that this sudden fit of ill-humour seemed out of character. 

“I don’t know how they get away with calling themselves that,” Ron went on, still sounding peevish. “It should be shut down and all the animals rehoused somewhere decent.”

“I couldn’t really see much in the dark.”

Ron huffed crankily. “Well,” he said. “You can take my word for it. The bird enclosures there are a joke, a sick joke. No bird should ever be kept behind any sort of bars, but at least most respectable zoos and sanctuaries try to provide adequate space for them to fly. Not there though. The cages are over-crowded and far too small and God knows the last time they were cleaned out. The other animal enclosures are just as bad.” 

His voice had risen progressively over the course of this speech and Draco realised he’d never heard Ron so angry before. There was a tiny, practically minute part of Draco that thought that he should probably feel slightly ashamed for how turned on it made him. Frankly, it was a pretty easy part to ignore. 

“So why steal just one small owl?” he asked (and yes, Draco might well have been trying to stoke the fire a little, so fucking sue him). “Not much of a gesture,” he added almost tauntingly.

Ron jumped to his feet and turned towards him, his face growing red with anger now; his hair was still wet and his t-shirt was clinging rather nicely. Draco didn’t dare look down any further but he was more than happy with what he could see (he made a mental note to thank the little owl later). 

“I wasn’t trying for a gesture, Draco. I was taking back _my_ owl.” He slumped back down in the sand next to Draco. “I’ve had Pig since I was ten,” he said with such feeling that Draco almost felt ashamed for baiting him. 

“What on earth was _your_ owl doing there, then?” he asked nearly as confused as he was turned on. 

Ron sighed loudly. “Viktor,” he said. “He didn’t take the break up very well. He knew how much Pig meant to me and thought the best way to get back at me would be by stealing him and handing him over to that awful place.” 

Draco thought about that for a minute. “Why didn’t he just set it free?” he asked.

“ _Him_ , Draco,” Ron scowled at him. “Pig isn’t an ‘it’.” He turned and looked out to sea. Reaching down he scratched his ankle and Draco’s eyes greedily followed the movement of Ron's fingers on the pale skin. 

“He couldn’t set him free,” Ron finally said. “Because he knew Pig was already ‘free’.” He turned to look at Draco. “Pig _chooses_ to stay with me; I have never locked him in a cage or tied him to a perch. A window is always open and he comes and goes as he pleases. If Viktor had taken Pig anywhere and let him fly, he’d have flown straight back to me.”

Draco hadn’t really given the silly bird much thought, but what Ron said seemed to tie in with what he’d witnessed. He’d certainly never seen any evidence of the owl being tied to anything and now that he thought about it, he may have even seen him flying back through the open kitchen window at some point during the previous night’s festivities.

“Once Viktor admitted that he’d taken Pig,” Ron continued. “It only took me a couple of days to find out where he’d left him; there’s not that many places around here that would take in an owl. I tried to tell them what had happened and that I had purchase papers to prove Pig was mine but those bastards wouldn’t hand him over. The police didn’t want to know, said it was a private dispute over ‘goods’ – like Pig was some sort of _thing_ – and that I should speak to a solicitor. And I thought fuck that. I wasn’t leaving Pig in that hell hole a minute longer than I had to.”

Draco almost laughed at that; he could very well imagine that Ron’s response would have been to immediate action (he certainly didn't strike Draco as the sit back and do nothing sort).

He did wonder about something else though. “Why didn’t you tell me what you were going to do?”

And Ron did laugh at that. “Oh, come on, Draco, it was hard enough just getting you to let me into your car. If I’d have told you my intentions, you’d have driven me straight to the nearest police station.”

Well, yeah, that was probably a fair comment. “Or, mental institution,” Draco added thoughtfully.

“Exactly,” Ron said with a wry smile. “You didn’t really leave me with much choice.

“But why me?” Draco asked truly curious now. “Why didn’t you ask Harry – your _best_ friend?”

Ron looked at him for a long moment before answering. “Because he’d have stopped me,” he finally said.

Oh, well. Draco didn’t really want to dwell on that, so he tried to think of something else to say.

“Have you really had Pig that long?” he asked.

Ron grinned. “Yep,” he said proudly. “It will be fifteen years in March.”

Draco was surprised. He didn’t know much about owls – why the fuck would he – but he didn’t think they lived that bloody long. He said as much and then asked, “Is he very old then?” Draco didn’t relish the possibility of having to bury a dead bird at some point over the next month.

Ron shook his head. “Oh no, not really. He probably still has another fifteen years in him. He’s a Scopes owl, which is why he’s so small and they usually live to about thirty.”

Good heavens. Draco couldn’t imagine being responsible for another living thing for that length of time (which is why he’d always considered it a very good thing that he was never likely to procreate). Something else suddenly occurred to him.

“Did Viktor know how long you’d had him?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What a bastard,” Draco said.

“Well, yeah,” Ron agreed. “But he’s working on it.”

After a few minutes where neither man spoke, Draco said, “I’m glad I gave you that lift.”

Ron smiled warmly at him. “So am I,” he said.

***

“Do we have to?” Draco whined.

Ron shook his head and sighed. “For God’s sake, Draco, you sound like a five year old. Man up. It’s only dinner.”

“Yeah,” Draco mumbled sullenly, “with your _best_ friend.”

“Draco, please stop saying it like that.”

He couldn’t help it. There was just something about this Harry character that unsettled Draco and the thought of dinner with the git made him want to run screaming for the hills. Not to mention that it would break into his Ron shagging time, which, as far as Draco was concerned, was always a bad thing.

Ron was at the sink doing the last of the washing up, and Draco spent a few minutes admiring the view. Ron had actually made a bit of an effort this evening, forgoing his usual tatty jeans and jumper ensemble in favour of dark slacks and a very nice blue shirt that did amazing things to his eyes. Draco was torn between irritation that this Harry bloke seemed to warrant such effort and appreciation of the end result. Fuck, his life was complicated these days.

If only he could think of a reason to get out of this stupid bloody dinner. He eyed Ron’s arse and wondered if maybe some stealth groping would be of any use. Draco broke into a grin. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say. And he stood up and headed over.

“You do realise,” he said into Ron’s ear, as he snaked his arms around his waist. “That we could be in bed right now.” He paused to suck on Ron’s earlobe and slipped his hands up his shirt. “Where you could be giving me lesson one in how to do that trick with my tongue.” His thumbs stroked over the trail of hair just above Ron’s waistband. 

For a blissful minute Draco thought his cunning plan was working. Ron’s breath had definitely done that cute hitching thing and his stomach was trembling in a most promising manner, but then the bastard reached down and stopped Draco’s wandering hands. 

“Draco, much as I appreciate your attempts to derail tonight’s dinner plans, I would just like to reiterate that we _are_ still going.” He turned in Draco’s arms until he was facing him. “I will be more than happy to pick up from here, however, when we get back.” And he leant forward to give Draco a very thorough kiss.

By the time Ron pulled back, Draco was more than a little light headed, which probably explained the ease with which he was propelled from the house. Ron was clearly a very sneaky bastard.

Once they were outside, Draco automatically headed for his car but Ron stopped him with a hand on his arm. “We don’t need the car,” he said. “We can walk from here.”

Draco turned and rested his hand on Ron’s right hip. “Don’t you think you’ve walked enough today,” he said gently. 

Ron smiled. “I’m fine,” he said. “It’s not far and besides I have my trusty stick,” and he waved his walking stick from side to side.

“Are you sure?” Draco asked. “I don’t want you being too tired to bugger me senseless later.” He kept his tone light but his hand stroked Ron’s hip, carefully telegraphing his real concern.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Ron said with a smirk. “I’ll be more than up for that job. Walking actually helps, it’s sitting around too long that makes it ache. Come on.” And he headed off down the road. 

Ron was right; it really wasn’t that far. Harry apparently only lived two streets over. 

Draco was a little surprised, however, when Ron pointed to the end of the road and said, “There, that’s Harry’s, the last house on the corner.”

He would have expected Harry to live somewhere a bit more stylish, maybe a swanky bachelor’s pad in a brand new building or a converted Victorian terrace. But then, he supposed he was making those assumptions based on his own taste. Christ, Ron lived in a granny bungalow, so what did Draco know? Still, the large detached house with the double garage that they were now walking towards seemed an odd choice for a single bloke.

“So,” Draco said as they drew closer to the house. “Is it just a coincidence that he lives so close or is that how you know him?” He was fishing for information; Ron hadn’t given much away about how he knew Harry and Draco was getting desperate. So far, all Ron had admitted was that he’d known Harry for a couple of years and yeah, he was his _best_ friend (and okay, Ron might have a point about how he said that).

“Neither really,” Ron replied. They’d reached the gate now and he paused to answer. “Harry moved here after we’d met but I don’t think it was a coincidence, whatever he might claim. Harry’s a bit of a mother hen,” he said smiling fondly. “He acted like this was just the house he’d been looking for when he told me where he was moving to, but I think he just wanted to be close so he could keep an eye on me.”

For the first time since meeting him that morning, Draco felt himself warming to Harry. He liked the idea of someone looking out for Ron (Draco still felt the git should keep his hands to himself though).

“Not that I needed looking after,” Ron continued as he opened the gate and ushered Draco through.

They rang the doorbell and only had to wait a couple of seconds for it to be opened by a smiling Harry. 

“Ron, you made it,” he said and stepped back to let them both walk in, closing the door behind them. “Go through,” he said.

Ron led the way down the hallway and into the lounge. It was a good sized room, cozy without being cramped; French doors mid-way had been pushed open to reveal a dining room table tastefully set for four. Draco eyed the fourth setting and wondered who the other guest was.

Harry took their coats and disappeared to put them away, returning a minute later to ask them what they’d like to drink.

“I know Ron will have a beer,” he said. “But what about you, Sept –” but he got no further.

Draco stepped up and grabbed hold of Harry's hand, squeezing it until he could feel the bones shifting together. “My name is Draco Malfoy,” he said through gritted teeth. “You may call me Draco or Malfoy. If you ever call me by the name of a month again, I will rip off your arm and feed it to you. Is that clear?” And he finally released Harry’s hand.

“Fucking crystal,” Harry said as he shook out his hand and winced. “Lovely to meet you, _Draco_ ,” he continued a moment later, and to Draco’s complete surprise he grinned at him. Draco had the strangest feeling that he’d just passed some sort of test, but fucked if he knew what it was. 

Harry looked at him for a long moment and then declared, “I reckon you’re a red wine man. Right?”

Draco nodded, impressed in spite of himself. 

“Okay,” Harry went on. “Well, make yourselves at home while I go and get those drinks.” And he walked from the room.

Before Draco could ask Ron about the other place setting, a man came bounding into the room and launched himself at Ron.

“Ron, you’re here,” he said in a broad Irish accent, wrapping his arms around Ron. “Harry, the bastard, didn’t tell me you were here. He obviously wanted to keep you all to himself.”

Draco thought that was a little unreasonable given that they’d barely stepped through the door and Harry had probably spent all of three minutes with them before the arrival of this …well, the word _limpet_ came to mind. And just when was he going to let go?

“Hi, Seamus,” Ron said over the top of the other man’s head. He rolled his eyes at Draco who raised his own eyebrows at the sound of the man’s name. So this was the infamous Seamus. Draco blinked. He had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

“Let me look at you,” Seamus said stepping back but keeping a hold of Ron’s hand. “Well, don’t you look pretty,” he continued as he took in what Ron was wearing. “I like that shirt, brings out the colour in your eyes and not tucked in too. Nice look _and_ easy access.” And the evil git moved in close again to put his hand up Ron’s shirt.

This turn of events had Draco shifting uneasily. It was probably impolite to bludgeon someone to death in somebody else’s house but unless the little bastard took his hand out in the next ten seconds, then, that was very probably what was going to happen. It was a shame Harry had a beige carpet; it would be murder to get the blood stains out. 

Seamus must have had strong survival instincts because at that moment he did indeed move his hand. 

To. Ron’s. Arse.

Things might have ended very badly, if Ron hadn’t had the presence of mind to shove Seamus back and slap the back of his head. “Behave you,” he said. “You’re upsetting Draco.”

“Ooh, Draco,” Seamus said happily turning to look at Draco. “Harry told me about him.” He gave Draco a very careful once over before turning back to Ron. “He’s definitely –” 

“If you say ‘prettier than August’,” Draco interrupted. “I swear to God I will punch you in the throat.”

Seamus looked wide-eyed at him. “Bit of a violent bastard isn’t he?” He said, nudging Ron in the side. “Actually,” he went on, “I was going to say he’s definitely better endowed than August.” And he grinned cheekily at Draco.

Ron dropped his head and groaned, “Oh, God.”

Draco was struck speechless. But he had a sudden overpowering urge to cover his crotch.

“What?” asked Seamus looking from one to the other. “Those trousers are bloody tight. I can almost see –”

Fuck it. Draco put both of his hands in front of him.

Luckily, Ron had the foresight to clap his hand over Seamus’ mouth before he could get out another word.

“Harry,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Please come and rein in your husband, he’s scaring Draco.”

And that’s when Draco noticed the silver band on the Irishman’s finger. 

For the second time that night Draco felt dizzy. 

***

To Draco’s amazement, dinner past almost pleasantly. Once Harry had subdued Seamus (Draco wasn’t exactly sure how, but his mere presence seemed to have a calming effect on his wayward husband; Draco thought he would have to get some tips on how to do that at some point), the conversation settled down to more socially acceptable subjects.

After they’d finished with the main course, Harry went to put dessert in the oven. Ron and Seamus took this as their chance to move into the lounge and put the football on; they’d already spent a good portion of the evening arguing over the merits of their respective teams (Draco knew fuck all about football and cared even less, so he hadn’t even tried to follow their conversation) and now they wanted to watch the games from earlier that Seamus had recorded. 

Draco remained in the dining room, sipping his wine and watching Ron laugh and joke with his friend. Now that he could see exactly where Seamus’ hands where, Draco found he didn’t mind the man quite so much. And well, anyone that could make Ron laugh out loud like that, couldn’t be all bad.

When Harry came back in to the lounge, he paused for a moment to see what the other two were watching, and then came back over to the dining room table. He sat down opposite Draco and nodded his head back at Ron and Seamus. “Those two and their football,” he said with a shake of his head.

Draco knew from the earlier conversation that Harry shared his own complete lack of interest in the stupid game, so he wasn’t surprised that he too had no desire to watch it. 

“I think me and Seamus have had more arguments over football than anything else,” Harry continued. “Which given his complete lack of social propriety in almost all situations probably says rather a lot about football.” 

Draco frowned. “Oh,” he said confusedly. “I got the impression from earlier, that you weren’t really very interested in it.”

“Oh, I’m not,” responded Harry. “But when we first met, Seamus used to play for a couple of local weekend teams. Every Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning, he’d don his kit and off he’d go.” Harry picked up the bottle of wine from the table and refreshed first Draco’s glass and then his own. “In those early, heady days, like a complete idiot I would go and watch. It wasn’t exactly the highlight of my week,” he said with a grin. “Don’t get me wrong; seeing Seamus running around in shorts and a tight football top will never be a bad thing but the rest of it? No, thank you.”

Draco nodded in sympathy; he could quite imagine how tiresome it must have been.

“So,” Harry went on. “I eventually stopped going. Which was when the arguments started.”

“Oh,” Draco said understandingly. “He was angry because you didn’t want to watch him play.”

“No,” Harry said with a smile. “He was fine with that. But he would come home late, or forget to meet me, or fall asleep because he was tired out. Or, you know, a million other things that revolved around this stupid hobby that no longer included me. It was actually becoming a real problem.” Harry’s voice had grown suddenly serious.

“What changed?” Draco asked. He assumed something had happened as the pair were still together.

“Ron,” Harry said with a fond smile. “I’d known Ron for a while by then but Seamus still hadn’t met him. At about the time that things were at their worst between me and Seamus, I finally introduced the two of them. Seamus took to Ron immediately and Ron, God bless him, took Seamus in his stride and wasn’t offended by his… shall we say natural exuberance.” Harry paused here to give his husband a fond glance.

Draco followed his gaze to the two men sitting on the sofa. They were still watching the football and by the looks of things there was some lively banter going on. Draco smiled, Ron looked really happy.

“Anyway, when they met, the two of them really hit it off.” 

Harry’s voice cut into Draco's thoughts and he turned to look back at the other man.

“Turned out they were both football mad. Ron used to play too before…well, before he had to get around with a stick. He asked if he could go and watch Seamus play one Saturday. And Seamus came home that day and said he wasn’t going to play anymore. It took him a while to tell me why he’d quit so suddenly but eventually he did. It was seeing Ron that day and having to witness the longing on his face as he watched others play the game that he loved so much but could no longer play, it was just too painful for Seamus. He told me he just didn’t feel right carrying on. And, well, Draco, if I didn’t know I loved Seamus before then, well, that pretty much sealed it for me.”

Draco looked back over at Seamus, seeing him in a completely different light now.

“He was good too,” Harry continued. “Those are his trophies on the top shelf.” He nodded at the wall behind Draco. “They’re just his favourites. We have a couple more boxes of them stored in the loft.”

Draco stood up and walked over to the shelves. He looked at the trophies that filled the top shelf. They weren’t the most elegant awards he’d ever seen, mostly bronze figures poised to kick a ball, one or two plaques and a truly ugly three tiered atrocity. Just then, he noticed that the shelf below also housed a row of awards but these were a lot less gaudy. One in particular drew his eye; he recognized it immediately, as he had one just like it on his own shelf at home. He moved closer to read the inscription.

He turned slowly back to stare wide-eyed at Harry. “You’re Harry Potter,” he said stunned.

“Um, yeah,” Harry said nodding his head. “And you’re Draco Malfoy. I’m pretty sure we established that earlier.”

“No,” Draco said emphatically as he retook his seat. “Harry, just Harry. That’s all anyone told me. There was never any mention of the Potter bit. Because trust me, I would have remembered that.”

Harry laughed. “Okay, if you say so,” he conceded. “But what’s the big deal?”

The big deal was that any award that Draco had ever lost out on, he had lost out on to Harry bloody Potter. That’s what the fucking big deal was. Of course, the really annoying thing was that he actually admired Harry’s work. He’d followed the other man’s career ever since he’d first heard about the whiz-kid that had come out of nowhere to take the advertising world by storm, and while he’d rather be eaten alive by ants than admit it, Harry had become a bit of a personal hero, someone to emulate and strive to surpass. And here Draco had been sitting in the man’s house, eating at his table and threatening him. And his husband. Oh boy. 

“No big deal,” Draco said trying to sound nonchalant. “You work for Remus & Tonks, right? I’m familiar with your work. Those cancer research adverts were amazing.”

“Thank you,” Harry replied. “I’m very proud of them. So you’re in advertising too then?” he asked curiously.

Draco started to nod his head and then remembered that actually no, he wasn’t in advertising anymore. He wasn’t in anything anymore.

“I was until two days ago,” he answered bluntly.

“Ah,” Harry said. “That explains why Ron banned us from mentioning work this evening.” 

“Oh, I didn’t know he’d done that.” Draco had just been relieved that no one had asked him what he did for a living. He hadn’t questioned it, but thinking about it now, he supposed it was pretty odd that nobody had talked about their jobs.

“Well,” Harry said standing up. “I’d better go and switch the oven off or dessert won’t be Baked Alaska so much as Burnt To A Crisp Alaska.” And he walked out of the room.

Draco turned back to take another look at the awards. He was trying not to be too bitter about the fact that there were easily twice as many weighing down Harry’s shelf, as there were weighing down his own. He thought about the cancer ads that he’d mentioned and it was suddenly easier not to feel so irritated. They’d been inspired, even Draco had been moved by them. He thought about the image of the little boy watching his mum fade from a mirror, of the old man looking at his wife’s reflection, hearing her telling him to wrap up warm, only for her to fade too. He wondered about what might have happened in Harry’s own life that meant that he’d been able to identify with such loss, and translate it so viscerally, with just a few simple shots and some incredibly emotive music. 

The sound of the phone ringing in the next room pulled him from his thoughts. He looked over in time to see Ron answering it. There was no sign of Seamus. Draco assumed he’d either gone to give Harry a hand or was in the loo.

“Hello,” Ron said into the receiver. Suddenly Ron's face drained of all colour and he took a step back.

Draco thought he must be hearing some terrible news and stood frozen for a moment, not sure of what he should do.

“Who – who is this?” Ron stammered out. “Why are you calling here?” Ron sounded angry now. “No. I can’t believe you involved Harry. No. No, I can’t do this.” And he hung up.

Harry suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“How long?” Ron asked him still sounding angry.

Harry held his hands up. “Ron, calm down,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “Let’s just sit down and talk about it.”

“No,” Ron said fervently. “No, I’m not doing this.” He left the room and a second later they heard the front door slam shut. 

What the hell was that all about? Draco looked at Harry, waiting for some sort of explanation.

Harry rubbed his hand over his face; he looked distraught.

Draco walked over to him. “Who was that on the phone?” he asked. Harry may not have spoken to the person but Draco guessed from his reaction that he must have had a pretty good idea of who it was.

Harry looked up surprised, as if he’d forgotten Draco was there. “Ginny,” he said a moment later. “Ron’s sister,” he clarified.

“But why –” Draco started to ask but Harry interrupted.

“It’s not for me to tell,” he said quietly. “You should go after him,” he went on, suddenly galvanized into action. He walked back into the hallway and started to get down their coats from the coat-rack. “The stupid git has gone off without his coat or stick,” he said, handing Draco his own coat. “It’s raining out, he’ll be soaked.”

Draco quickly donned his jacket before grabbing Ron’s stick and coat from Harry. 

“Tell him I’m sorry,” Harry said. “And I’ll speak to him tomorrow. If he’ll listen.”

Draco didn’t know what to say, so he simply nodded. He noticed Seamus sitting on the stairs looking glum; Draco nodded at him too and then walked out.

When he got outside, he turned his collar up and hunched down into his coat. Harry wasn’t kidding when he said it was raining. Stupid bloody British weather. Who would believe that only that morning, they’d been sitting on a beach sunning themselves, and now Draco was walking into driving rain and trying to keep the cold wind out of his jacket? 

He walked out of the front gate and looked up the dark street. There was no sign of Ron. The silly bugger must have been walking awfully quickly or even running – without his stick. That couldn’t be good. Draco put down his head against the rain and started to jog down the street.

As he turned the corner into the next road, he slowed down expecting to see Ron but he wasn’t there either. Draco hoped he was heading home and hadn’t taken off in the opposite direction. He quickened his pace. When he jogged onto Ron’s street he immediately spotted a figure huddled up against a wall. As he drew closer, he realised it was Ron, half-lying on the ground and holding his leg. Draco ran over to him and knelt down.

“Ron,” he said. “What happened? Are you alright?” Which okay, was a bloody stupid question given the situation but Draco wasn’t really good in a crisis.

“I was running,” Ron panted; he was clearly in a lot of pain. “And my leg suddenly just went out from under me. I couldn’t get up.”

“Of course, it bloody well collapsed under you, you moron.” Draco was aware that shouting at Ron probably wasn’t the best response but he couldn’t help it; Ron had scared him. 

“What were you thinking?” he asked, as he helped Ron to sit up and wrestled him into his coat. He was completely soaked through and when Draco touched his hand it was freezing cold. God, he was going to kill him when he got him home. “You already overdid it this morning, prancing on the beach with those stupid bloody dogs. And then you take off like that. Who do you think you are? Bloody Usain Bolt?”

Ron wasn’t saying anything and Draco paused for a moment to check he was okay. 

“Have you finished?” Ron asked with a sardonic smile.

“Oh my God,” Draco said throwing his hands up. “And now you’re smiling. Really? Because from where I’m standing this doesn’t look all that funny. You are soaked through and will probably end up with double pneumonia. Don’t even get me started on your leg.”

Ron just shook his head and let him rant. 

By the time Draco had wound down, he had Ron tucked into his coat and standing upright. He handed him his stick and pulled his other arm around his shoulder. “Are you ready?” he asked worriedly.

“Yeah,” Ron said with a tight nod of his head. “Let’s do this.” And he gritted his teeth and started to hobble as best he could, Draco trying to take as much of his weight as possible.

Thankfully, they were only a few doors from Ron’s house so it didn’t take too long to make it to the front door. Once inside, Draco took him straight through to the bedroom and lowered him gently down to sit on the end of the bed. He helped him off with his jacket, throwing it on the floor, and immediately started on the buttons of the sodden shirt.

“Whoa,” Ron gasped. “Take it easy, Draco. I might need a few minutes before I’m up for that sort of thing.”

Draco gave him a withering look. “You,” he said pointing his finger. “You, are going straight to bed – in your pyjamas,” he hastily added when he saw the other man’s hopeful look. “Now where do you keep your tablets?”

“In the bathroom,” Ron replied in a subdued voice. Good, he should be subdued. Bloody idiot.

Draco went over to the chest of drawers and pulled out the first pair of pyjamas he found in there. So far he’d never seen Ron wearing any, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know where they were kept – he’d had a good snoop around that first day.

“Here,” he said handing them to Ron. “Try to put these on without breaking your neck. I’ll get your tablets.”

He went down the hall to get the tablets and a glass of water, and by the time he returned, Ron had managed to remove his shirt, and replace it with the pyjama top. But now he was struggling to get his wet trousers off past his thighs. Draco would have laughed if his heart wasn’t still lodged firmly in his throat from earlier when he had come around that corner to see the other man prone on the ground.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he mumbled and strode over to help.

Before too long, he had Ron dressed in dry clothes and tucked under the bed covers. He watched over him as he took his pain killers and then took the glass off him, putting it down on the bedside table. 

“Sleep,” he said pointing warningly. He walked around to the other side of the bed, stripped down to his underwear and climbed under the covers. Shuffling over to Ron, he slipped an arm over his chest.

Ron turned his head to look at him. Draco was concerned by the lines of exhaustion and pain that he saw on the other man’s face.

“Thanks,” Ron said in a tired voice.

“Ssh,” Draco said softly. He reached across and kissed him briefly. “Go to sleep.”

Ron closed his eyes.

Draco watched until the other man’s breathing evened out, and then he leant over and switched off the bedside lamp.

***

The next morning, not only was Ron not out of bed when Draco awoke, but he was also still asleep. This had never happened before and was probably testimony to just how tired Ron had been the night before.

Draco couldn’t believe his luck. It was the first chance he’d had to see the other man asleep and he was quite content to lay there and watch him for as long as he could get away with it. Draco moved closer, careful so as not to disturb him, and gently placed his hand on Ron's stomach; he wanted to feel the rise and fall of Ron’s breath under his hand. Draco smiled; Ron’s face had smoothed out in sleep, it looked rested, all signs of fatigue and discomfort from last night’s exertions seemed to have disappeared.

A few minutes passed, the only sound in the room their quiet breathing, then Ron’s eyelids fluttered and his breathing changed as he started to wake. Draco slipped his hand under Ron’s shirt to the warm skin beneath. Ron’s eyes opened and he blinked away the last of his sleep. Slowly he turned his head to look at Draco.

“Hi,” he said voice still sleep-rough.

“Hi,” Draco smiled back, then reached up and kissed him softly on the mouth. 

“You’re normally still asleep at this point,” Ron said with a grin.

“Yeah, well,” Draco replied. “I think you needed it more than I did this time.”

Ron nodded his head. “You’re probably right,” he agreed. He paused for a moment as if thinking out what he wanted to say next. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I shouldn’t have run off like that, it wasn’t fair on you.”

“I can take care of myself,” Draco answered. “It wasn’t fair on your poor bloody leg, but I’m sure you had your reasons. I just wish you’d tell me what they were.”

He waited, wanting to give Ron a chance to tell him what had happened last night; to maybe, finally open up a little about his family. But Ron stayed stubbornly quiet and Draco had to fight the urge to smother the frustrating git with his pillow.

Draco sighed. “Look,” he said. “I know that was your sister on the phone. Ginny, isn’t it?”

Ron frowned and tried to sit up but he immediately winced and had to lay back down.

Draco sat up quickly and looked down at him. “Are you okay?” he asked concerned. “Is your leg still sore?”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, sorry, would you mind getting me another couple of tablets?”

“Of course,” Draco said and climbed out of the bed. He returned a couple of minutes later with the tablets and a fresh glass of water. He helped Ron to sit up so he could take the tablets and then he sat down on the edge of the bed. He combed his fingers gently through Ron’s hair, enjoying the feel of the soft strands.

“You’re a bloody idiot, you know that?” he said wearily.

“I know,” Ron said. “You’re not the first to tell me that. I think I’m going to be feeling last night’s run for the next few days.”

“And the rest,” Draco mumbled but he didn’t pursue it. Ron needed to take it easy and he was determined to make him stay in bed for the rest of the day (and not for the usual reasons). 

“I,” Draco said imperiously, “am going to go and make us both some tea. I am also going to collect the newspaper from the doorstep and then I am going to hide the sports section somewhere you will never find it.” Ron started to protest but Draco held up his hands. “Now, now,” he admonished. “None of that. Maybe then you’ll think twice before you decide to go for an evening jog.”

He leant forward and gave the other man a quick peck on the cheek before leaving the room.

***

Draco managed to keep Ron in bed until noon, which given the man’s normal levels of energy, he counted as a win.

When he couldn’t take his incessant whingeing a minute longer, Draco grudgingly allowed Ron to move to the sofa, on the condition that he lay there quietly and stopped complaining about Draco’s selfless caring (he was _not_ fussing like an old woman, he was being thoughtful and considerate and displaying the patience of a saint in the process and if Ron rolled his eyes at him just once more, then Draco was going to shove Ron's fucking walking stick up his fucking arse). 

Later, after he had cleared away their lunch plates, Draco decided that Ron was recovered enough to face some questions about the previous night's mysterious phone call. 

“So,” he said leaning forward in his armchair. “What did your sister have to say that was so terrible that it had you running away?” It wasn’t a very subtle approach but Draco had never seen the point in dancing around a subject.

Ron blanched and his eyes widened. He took a deep breath before answering, as if considering what to say. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said finally.

“Tough,” Draco snapped back, “because I do.” And he folded his arms and sat back. Ron was fooling himself if he thought that there was any way he was going to get out of discussing this. 

Ron sighed and dropped his head onto the back of the sofa. He studied the ceiling for a moment and then lifted his head to look back at Draco. “Okay,” he said. “You win. It wasn’t _what_ she said, it was the fact that she was calling at all.”

Draco frowned. Was he angry that she called Harry? Last night Ron had asked Harry ‘how long’? Was there something going on between his sister and Harry?

“Is that why you were angry at Harry?” Draco asked carefully. 

“Yes,” Ron answered. “I had no idea that he was in touch with them.”

“Them?”

“My family.” Ron paused biting his lower lip. “I haven’t seen or talked to any of my family in quite a while. It’s not something I was looking to change. Ginny calling Harry last night means that Harry has been going behind my back and talking to them. I –I didn’t like that.” Ron brushed his hand through his hair. “I _don’t_ like that. I don’t like the idea of them knowing where I am or how to contact me. And, I hate that they’ve somehow got Harry involved.”

Draco thought about that for a moment. It sounded like Ron had some real issues with his family.

“What did they do to make you hate them so much?” he asked.

Ron flinched as if he’d been struck. “I – I don’t hate them,” he said falteringly. “I love them. I just can’t face them right now; maybe not ever. I just wish they’d get that. I want them to understand that I need them to leave me alone. I wish that they’d just forget that I exist.” He was looking down at his lap now and this last was almost a whisper.

Draco stood up and walked over to him. He knelt on the floor next to the sofa and waited for Ron to raise his head. Once Ron was looking at him, Draco took hold of his hand and asked, “Why would they ever do that? And why would you even want them to?”

But Ron just shook his head sadly and made no answer.

Draco kept hold of his hand and climbed onto the sofa next to him. It was a tight fit, but Ron put his arm around him and held on. And that was enough for now. 

***

The days flew by after that.

At first, Draco tried to get Ron to open up further about the phone call and his family, but Ron refused to answer any of his questions and he gradually gave up asking. No more was said about it. 

Harry had also tried to speak to Ron several times since, but Ron had been adamant in his refusal to be appeased. Harry, though, was persistent and eventually Ron began to thaw towards him, until they seemed to reach an uneasy truce. As far as Draco knew, Ron didn’t demand a promise from Harry not to speak to his family, but he thought that must have been a pretty obvious condition of their détente.

Draco tried not to think about how quickly their time together was running out. He carefully avoided the shops with the most prominent Halloween displays and told himself that this time would be different. Whatever had gone before, whatever way things had ended with all the others, what he and Ron had was different. It _had_ to be different.

Until, one day he woke up and realised, he couldn’t hold it back anymore: in two days it would be October and no amount of avoidance was actually going to stop the world turning. Fucking stupid planet.

Draco lay there for a few minutes and thought about where the days had gone. He figured if this was a film, then this would be the cheesy montage bit and idly wondered what moments in the past month would feature in his own particular opus. 

Their protest and near arrest at the animal sanctuary would definitely feature. Draco still couldn’t quite believe that he'd suggested it. But he just hadn’t been able to forget the haunted look in Ron’s eyes as he’d spoken about Pig being trapped there, and when he’d finally seen the place himself (in daylight) Draco knew the bastards had it coming.

The Karaoke night he would personally rather forget but was equally sure would make the cut (especially if Ron had any say in it). At least now, when Draco bemoaned his inability to carry a note in a bucket, Ron had stopped insisting otherwise.

The two night stay at Disneyland Paris was, of course, a given. All those opportunities for nice close-up shots of them standing on the upper deck of the ferry with the wind ruffling their hair, or laughing, heads thrown back as they flew by on Dumbo would surely be too tempting to any film maker (never mind that in reality, Draco had spent the entire very rough crossing barfing into a toilet, and had been so scared of heights, that once seated on the Dumbo ride, he’d refused to let Ron pull the lever that would have elevated them into the air, so that they’d spent the whole ride trundling around on the ground, much to the glee of the watching, finger-pointing crowd). It was Draco’s own fault; he should never had told Ron that he hadn’t ever been on a rollercoaster (of course when the bastard had declared that he knew the exact one for his initiation, Draco had stupidly assumed it would be in _this_ country. Still, Ron _had_ been right about Big Thunder Mountain).

The many, many hours that they had spent between the sheets over the past month would, obviously, have to be heavily edited unless they wanted it to be banned from all mainstream cinemas. 

Draco grinned at that last thought and reached over to pull Ron’s pillow to him. Of course, Ron himself was already up, so he had the bed all to himself. He didn’t like the feeling. And that was definitely something new; normally Draco hated sharing a bed. It’s why he favoured one night stands; at least they had the decency to clear off after the deed was done. Relationships, on the other hand, came with all that awkward snuggling and bed-hogging and Draco inevitably found himself cringing from the other person’s touch, holding his breath and waiting for them to move away, or even better to get up and go. Draco loved those moments, when the bed was all his again and he’d sigh and stretch out trying to make his body as big as possible, to reclaim his space. 

But now, now everything was too big – the bed, the space, the quiet. Ron was a bastard, an evil, dark magic-practising bastard who had clearly done some sort of voodoo shit on him because now being alone in this bed just felt _wrong_.

Christ, he was truly fucked. 

***

It was 1.30pm when Draco got the call from the printers. His order was ready for collection. It was cutting it a bit fine – it was the 1st October tomorrow – but they’d come through in the end. The man who’d taken his order the previous day had been doubtful that they could do it for a next day pick up, but when Draco had made it clear that money wasn’t an issue, he’d become a lot more optimistic.

Ron had gone to take the dogs for their Friday walk. He’d seemed a little disappointed when Draco declined to join him, and Draco was sad about it too – he’d become rather fond of the silly mutts and had even started to look forward to their walks – but he’d wanted to be near the car when this call came through.

Draco drove to the printers and collected his precious gift. He already had the wrapping paper waiting back at the house, so he rushed back to make sure it was wrapped and ready for Ron’s return.

Ron arrived home shortly after, looking flushed and happy from his exercise. Draco couldn’t help but wrap him in his arms and kiss the smile from his face as soon as he walked in the door. When Draco was finally able to pull himself away from the other man, he took his hand and led him into the lounge. Sitting him down on the sofa, Draco picked the gift up from the coffee table and placed it in Ron’s hands.

“Here,” he said happily. “I got you something.”

Ron took the gift and grinned. “You do know it’s not my birthday, right?” he asked looking completely flummoxed. 

Draco just smiled and said, “Open it.”

Ron shrugged and began to tear off the wrapping paper. Once the paper had all been removed he looked down at the thing in his hands. “Um,” he said looking back up at Draco.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Well, look inside,” he said impatiently. 

Ron obediently lifted the first page. Then, the second. And another, and another. After that he flipped through all the other pages quickly. By the time he reached the end, the smile had slipped from his face.

He stopped turning the pages and looked up at Draco. “It’s a calendar,” he said sounding bewildered and a little scared. “But all the months say ‘September’.”

Draco nodded, grinning back at him. “Yes,” he said happily. “Don’t you get it? This can be our calendar. Where every month is September.”

When Ron continued to frown and look unhappy, Draco started to feel uneasy; surely this should be the moment Ron got what he was trying to say and leapt about with joy. Okay, well maybe he was dimmer than Draco thought, maybe he needed it explaining to him.

“According to this calendar,” he said carefully. “I don’t have to leave tomorrow.” 

Ron bit his lip and frowned down at the calendar again. “But this isn’t real,” he said softly. “And you have to go.”

Draco thought that was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. 

“But I don’t want to go,” he said adamantly. “I want us to carry on.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Ron’s voice was still soft, but he was shaking his head emphatically.

Draco was starting to feel annoyed now. “Of course it does,” he snapped. “That’s exactly how it goes.”

But Ron was still shaking his head. “Not for me it doesn’t.”

“Why?” Draco asked crossly. “Oh, that’s right; you have your big scary secrets don’t you?” He was really angry now. “Well, fuck you, Ron,” he spat out. “Because I don’t care. I don’t care about why you’re avoiding your family. I don’t care about how you hurt your leg. I don’t even care about all your previous months. I just care about us.”

Ron looked right at him then. “There is no _us_ ,” he said coldly.

Draco couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How can you say that? We’ve made a home together.”

“In a _month?_ ” Ron raised an eyebrow and Draco knew he was trying to sound dismissive, but Draco was used to reading clients and he could recognise a bluff when he saw one.

“Yes,” he said simply, feeling suddenly calm again. “Look around, Ron.” He pointed to the corner table. “There’s the lamp we bought together. Look at the photos over on the windowsill; they’re all of us and our time together.” 

But Ron wasn’t looking, his head was bent and he was staring down at the fucking useless gift. God, Draco wanted to scream. Why was he doing this, why was he making this so hard? 

“This is our fucking home,” he shouted. “We’re everywhere. Your smell on my fucking shirt. The rotting fruit in the bowl. The dust on the table. That’s us, we made that. My skin, your skin. Please, Ron, just _see_ it.” His voice was pleading now as he felt it all slipping away from him, as he felt Ron slipping away from him. 

Ron finally looked up. He stared at Draco for a long moment and then he stood up and reached for his hand. Draco felt a sudden bloom of hope burst in his chest as Ron took his hand and led him out of the room. Was this where Ron pushed him down onto their bed and showed Draco how sorry he was for worrying him? Oh God, he really hoped so.

But Ron didn’t lead him to the bedroom; he walked them over to the cupboard under the stairs. He let go of Draco’s hand to reach down to open it. Then he stood back and gestured to the opening. “Look inside,” he said quietly. “What do you see?”

It was small and Draco had to bend down to see. It was full of stuff, a typical dumping space. 

“A lot of crap,” Draco said succinctly.

“You think so?” Ron said sounding bitter. “Well, look again. Over in the corner, that’s _last_ September’s lamp. That grey box by your feet is full of photos – name a month and they’re in there. There was no rotting fruit left-over with December because he was a health freak and we started every day with smoothies. March, though, he was a slob. There was dust, so much dust and rotting fruit. Also mould and dishes that had to be thrown away. Every one of them made a life with me, Draco. For a _month_. And then they moved on and forgot me. You’ll do the same.” 

Draco was staring at him now. He felt ripped apart inside. Ron was reducing everything they’d shared to nothing. _‘Last_ September’ was still echoing in his head. Oh God, had Ron already found Draco's replacement?

“No,” he said shaking his head. “No, I won’t forget, Ron. And do you know why? Because, I can no longer sleep alone. Rollercoasters don’t scare me anymore. Suddenly, being laughed at isn’t the worst thing that could happen to me. Children aren’t Satan’s minions and the only good dog isn’t a dead dog. Coffee always tastes better with croissants now and I fucking love you, you bastard.”

Draco had never imagined saying those words, he’d certainly never imagined screaming them, but he hadn’t been able to stop them falling from his angry mouth.

“Yeah,” Ron said sadly. “That’s what they all said too.”

And he turned and walked out the door.

***

He didn’t come back that night.

Draco stormed around the house for the first couple of hours, kicking doors, punching walls and generally adding furniture abuse to his long list of sins. Eventually, the storm blew out and he gradually settled into a sort of sick inertia. He couldn’t bring himself to start packing his things, or even to think about it. All he could do was crawl into bed and hope that tomorrow never came.

When he awoke in the morning, Ron was gone as usual. But Draco knew this time there wouldn’t be coffee and croissants waiting for him. He dragged himself reluctantly out of bed and into the bathroom. He turned the heat up in the shower as high as he could stand it and let the water beat down on his shoulders, hoping it would release some of the tension, ease the ache in his chest and head. But when Draco stepped out he didn’t feel any better. There were just too many memories; memories of Ron warm and slippery, laughing as he washed Draco’s hair, nuzzling his neck, licking the water drops from his skin as he slyly hinted at other uses for the conditioner. And Draco couldn’t bear the thought of never having that again.

He dressed quickly, not wanting to spend any more time in the empty room that still smelled of Ron, and wandered into the kitchen. Pig hooted hello from his perch and Draco went over to pet the little owl.

“This is all your fault,” he said, stroking the soft feathers. “If you hadn’t managed to get yourself locked up, Ron wouldn’t have had to break you out and I wouldn’t have been dragged into his life of crime.” 

Draco thought about Viktor Krum then. How he too had woken up on another morning to find Ron gone from his life and his desperate, angry attempt to hurt Ron back. Draco had never felt any sympathy towards his predecessor before, quite the opposite in fact; as Draco had grown increasingly fond of Pig himself, and had seen how much the silly creature meant to Ron, he’d wanted to throttle Krum for his cruelty. But now, well, Draco still wouldn’t shake the bloke’s hand, but he could at least understand something of the frantic feelings that had driven Viktor to his drastic action. 

A sudden noise from the counter interrupted his thoughts and he looked up to see Scabbers awake and scratching at the bars of his cage (night-time was the only time the rat was put in the cage, and then only to protect him from anything else that might get into the house through Pig’s open window). This was his not so subtle way of letting Draco know that he was ready for his breakfast. Draco walked over to the rat, noticing that Ron had already put out his bowl. He lifted the hinge on the door and opened it so the rodent could hop out and waddle over to his food.

“Well, you certainly have me well trained,” Draco said smiling down at the rat. It seemed funny now to remember how appalled he’d been when he’d first seen Scabbers running across the counter top. Now, he was used to the sound of tiny claws scurrying across the table or under the chairs, and had even grown quite accustomed to the fat lump sitting on his shoulder, nosing at his hair while he tried to read the paper. Draco sighed; it wasn’t just Ron that he’d miss when he left.

So why leave?

The thought darted into his head so suddenly that Draco felt dizzy from it. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? It made complete sense. He didn’t want to go, so… he wouldn’t. And it would bloody well serve Ron right. He’d come barging into Draco’s life and refused to piss off. Well, let’s see how he liked it.

Having made his decision, Draco felt better than he had all day. He scratched Scabbers behind the ear and grinned down at him. “We’ll show him, won’t we, pest?” he said and didn’t even feel remotely embarrassed about talking to a rat.

***

It was early evening when Ron returned; clearly he was giving Draco plenty of time to leave. Draco didn’t know whether to be touched that Ron wasn’t rushing him, or annoyed that he was determined not to see Draco before he left.

Draco was waiting in the lounge. He tapped his fingers nervously on the arm of the chair as he waited for Ron to make his way into the room. He could hear him murmuring quietly in the kitchen; Draco assumed he was talking to Pig or Scabbers, probably making sure they’d been fed and watered. Then he heard Ron's stick clicking on the wooden floor as he headed toward the lounge. Draco held his breath.

“You’re still here.” Ron didn’t sound surprised. So much for grand gestures. Maybe, the other man knew him well enough by now to realise what a stubborn bastard Draco could be. 

“I am,” he replied. “And I’m not going anywhere. So, you might want to alert that journalist friend of yours because if you call the police to have me removed I’m going to create one hell of a fucking scene.”

Ron smiled sadly at him and shook his head. “Nah,” he said resignedly. “Seamus is out tonight and I’m pretty sure the police have better things to do with their time.” 

Seamus was the journalist? Well, that made sense; Draco could well imagine the brash Irishman harassing politicians and celebrities. He had the perfect personality for the media.

Ron had walked over to him now, and he reached for Draco’s hand.

Draco happily allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and followed Ron into the bedroom. He wanted to do victory arms and a happy dance, but he settled for pushing Ron down onto the bed and a silent prayer of thanks. 

***

The next day started like any other. Ron was up and about before Draco even opened his eyes, and although Draco’s heart skipped a beat at the empty bed and the memories from the day before, the smell of coffee and the clatter of cutlery close by, soothed his worries. Sure enough, when he walked into the kitchen, breakfast was waiting as usual and Ron greeted him with a smile and a lingering kiss.

Draco couldn’t quite believe it. Could it really have been so simple? Perhaps Ron had been testing him. Making sure Draco meant what he said and that he was definitely going to stick around. After all, with arseholes like Krum previously in his life, who knew what sort of shit Ron had had to put up with? Whatever the reason, Draco was just glad and relieved to be back to this; back where he belonged.

After breakfast, Ron said that he had to go out. Apparently he had tickets to a football match that he and Seamus had bought months ago; he offered to look online to see if there were still tickets available but Draco shuddered at the thought. He quickly assured Ron that he should go and enjoy the match with Seamus while he'd spend the afternoon looking into job opportunities. It was probably time Draco put himself back on the market and started to earn his keep.

Ron had been gone about an hour when Draco’s phone rang. He took it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. It was Pansy. Shit. Draco hated feeling guilty. The problem was, although, he’d texted her a few times over the last month, he hadn’t actually spoken to her since he’d been fired. And, well, if she’d been _just_ his personal assistant, then that would have been fine. The fact that she was also Draco's oldest, closest friend, on the other hand, probably meant that he was in for a right bollocking. 

He took a deep breath and pressed accept.

“Hello, Draco, remember me?” Well, she sounded surprisingly chipper. 

“Pansy, what a coincidence, I was just about to call you.”

“Shove it, Draco.” Okay, so maybe not _that_ chipper.

“Look,” Pansy went on. “I am a having a hellish day, and my bastard of a friend has totally deserted me in favour of shagging his very hot new boyfriend. So, I have decided that the bastard can make it up to me by buying lunch. I will meet you at 1pm at Prezzos. If you aren’t there I will hunt you down and cut off your dick.” And she hung up.

Wow, she must have been in a pretty good mood, that was almost normal for her. Draco checked his watch; he had just under an hour to get to the restaurant. If he left now he’d have time to buy flowers on his way. He may have escaped lightly up to now but Draco wasn’t taking any chances. He didn’t even consider not turning up, he wasn’t suicidal (and he really needed his dick).

Draco was already seated and had ordered Pansy’s favourite wine by the time she arrived. She sat down and nodded her approval, both at the wine and the large bouquet of yellow roses that Draco had placed on the table.

“Good boy,” she said smiling as she leaned down to kiss his cheek. Just then, a waiter walked by and Pansy stopped him with a hand to his arm. She picked up the roses and said, “Be a darling and pop these into some water for me. You can bring them back when we’re done.” And she handed the flowers to the bemused man before sitting down and reaching for her glass.

Draco smiled, he’d forgotten how wonderful Pansy could be and he suddenly realised how much he’d missed her and their barbed exchanges. 

He’d known Pansy since he was eleven. They’d met at school, bonding over their mutual hatred of the hideous uniform, and their extreme dislike of every other child in the class. After they’d left school, they’d decided to go to the same university. Of course, while Draco had worked hard and applied himself, Pansy had spent the entire three years getting pissed and staying out all night. She had subsequently failed her degree rather spectacularly. Her family had refused to support her after graduation and she’d taken up residence in Draco’s spare room. At the time, he had already started making a name for himself in the advertising world, and when he eventually needed a personal assistant, Draco had pulled a few strings and got a completely unqualified Pansy the job. He’d pretty much resigned himself to never receiving any messages, his diary being a daily disaster and having to make his own coffee. But to Draco's amazement, she’d actually turned out to be really good at the job and even made a passable cup of coffee (and it was better than having her living indefinitely in his spare room and mooching off him for life).

“So,” Pansy said after they had placed their orders. “Snape is still as obnoxious as ever. And De Mort is trying to sue the company for defamation of character, which as you can imagine, has really improved Severus’ normal sunny disposition.” She smiled at him. “Bless you, Draco, when you lose it, you lose it with style.” 

“Yes, well,” Draco replied snippily. “That twat had it coming. He called my presentation asinine and crass. It was porridge for fuck’s sake! What did he expect? A fucking sonnet? It was innovative and dynamic. It’s not my fault he’s too dim-witted to recognise brilliance when it’s right in front of him.”

“Well, whatever it was, it resulted in a one million pound libel suit landing on the legal department’s desk and has cost the company a number of other high profile accounts. Looks like De Mort has been talking to his business friends.”

“Good,” Draco said with a sly smile. “I hope the whole company comes crashing down around Snape’s fucking ugly ears. It’s no less than the bastard deserves.” 

Pansy sat forward and flicked the end of his nose. Fuck, that hurt. Draco hated when she did that.

“That’s all very well for you to say,” she said. “But some of us have to earn a crust, you know.”

“Oh, stop whining,” he replied. “You know wherever I work next, I’ll take you with me. How ever would I get through my day without your pearls of wisdom and your awful coffee?”

“That’s okay then,” she said grinning. “Now, tell me all about your lovely new man and don’t spare me the gory details.”

So, Draco did. He told her all about Pig’s rescue and the whole ‘move in for a month’ thing – though he really didn’t appreciate Pansy's “why you sly dog, sex on tap for a month and no strings” comment (even if it had been close to Draco's own thoughts on the matter at the start) – and how things had slowly progressed to the point that Draco had realised that he had completely fallen for the ginger maniac. He even told her about how it had all nearly gone to shit; their argument and the awful night he’d spent alone, how he’d felt paralysed with grief without Ron there. Draco wasn’t a falling in love kind of bloke and Pansy had known him a long time, so he was sure that she appreciated the seriousness of the situation. And well, she did look suddenly serious when he paused to look at her.

Pansy had always been a very cool, composed woman; she rarely became flustered or nervous. If something happened that did snap her out of her usual self-possession, then she usually managed to hide the fact. But they had known each other a very long time and Draco knew all her tells. The way she was worrying her bottom lip with her teeth now was one of them. He was familiar with that look and it never boded well. 

“What have you done?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” she said and reached out for his hand on the table. “I thought I was helping.”

He waited for her to continue, feeling sick to his stomach.

“Ron called me this morning,” she said. “He asked me to find a way to get you out of the house so he could organize a surprise.” She looked down at their hands. “He wouldn’t tell me what he had planned.” Pansy looked back up and gripped his hand tighter. “I thought – well, I don’t know what I thought, but now – I’m afraid, Draco. What if –?” 

She didn’t finish the thought but Draco knew what she was thinking. What if Ron was planning to run?

Draco stood up quickly. “I have to go,” he said.

Pansy just nodded and he rushed from the restaurant. Once he was in the car and driving back, he allowed a little hope to creep in; maybe he was being paranoid. What if Ron _was_ planning a surprise – a pleasant one that is. Maybe, even the big stupid gesture Pansy had so obviously conjured up in her surprisingly romantic head. But Draco couldn’t completely shake the feeling of dread that had settled over him at Pansy’s words and he desperately needed to get back to make sure.

It was quiet when he stepped through the door, which meant nothing really; Ron was a quiet sort, not one for loud music or the television blaring, but Draco still couldn’t help the overwhelming feeling of _empty_ that hit him as he walked up the hall. It was as if his body already knew that Ron was gone.

When he walked into the kitchen and the first thing he noticed, even before the vacant perch and the space where a rat’s cage used to sit, was the closed window, Draco knew that was it. If Pig was gone, then so was Ron.

Draco walked slowly into the bedroom, already knowing what he’d find. The wardrobe was still open, naked hangers mocking him. He didn’t even bother looking in the drawers or for Ron's shaving things in the bathroom.

But he was fucked if he was going to curl up on the bed this time.

He turned around and marched back out the door, down the hallway and out the house, heading towards Harry’s. If anyone knew where Ron had gone, it would be Harry; he might even have gone there. Draco quickened his step at that last thought.

No one was home when he made it to Harry’s house. Harry was probably at work and he idly wondered where Seamus was, because he sure as fuck wasn’t at a football match with Ron. Draco peered into any windows he could reach; the neighbours would probably call the police but Draco didn’t care. He wanted to make sure, wanted to see if Ron was in there, ignoring his knocks and shouts. But the house was dim, no sign of anyone. At a loss then, and suddenly feeling tired, Draco slumped down onto the front step, determined to wait for Harry or Seamus to come home so they could tell him where he had to go next.

He didn’t know how long he’d sat there. It had grown dark when Draco finally looked up at the sound of voices on the path. In the gloom he could just make out the silhouettes of Harry and Seamus talking quietly as they approached him.

“Is he here?” he asked when they reached him.

Harry looked at Seamus for a moment before he replied. “No,” he said.

“Would you tell me if he was?” Draco asked then.

Harry didn’t answer. Draco wasn’t surprised, but he felt another loss pulling at his gut. He had a feeling that Ron had got Seamus and Harry in the divorce.

“That’s what I thought,” he said standing up. “Tell him I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be there, waiting for him, waiting for him to stop being a coward.” 

And he walked down the path and back _home_.

***

Of course, the days no longer flew by. Time was a fickle bitch.

Draco spent the days visiting all the places he’d gone with Ron. He knew it was stupid. If Ron was determined to avoid him, then he was hardly likely to hang out someplace Draco knew. But well, Ron hadn’t exactly shown himself to be the brightest bulb in the packet and maybe he’d continue to be a dumb fuck. Or, maybe the big useless fucker in the sky would take pity on Draco and throw Ron into his path. Who knew? The thing was Draco had nothing else to go on. And nothing else to do.

So, he spent whole days at the beach, sitting in the same spot, staring out to sea and wondering what the other man was doing, if he was thinking about Draco as much as Draco was thinking about him.

The first day on his own, Draco had gone to collect the dogs at the usual time, maybe hoping to catch Ron there too. But Hagrid, a giant of a man who dwarfed his enormous dogs, had just shook his head and told him that Ron had called the day before to explain that he was going away and wouldn’t be able to walk the dogs for a while. Draco had taken the dogs that day but it hadn’t felt right; Ron’s absence was clearly felt by the animals and they had seemed listless and forlorn without him. Draco had returned the dogs to their home but he hadn’t gone back since. Hagrid looked like he could use the exercise; let him walk the stupid things.

He saw Teddy a couple of times, playing out on the street. But as the first words out of the kid’s mouth on both occasions had been, “Where’s Ron?” he hadn’t proven very useful in Draco’s search.

Draco hadn’t seen Argus but that neither surprised, nor concerned him. Frankly, Draco was happier not seeing the old man - he doubted if Argus always knew even his own whereabouts, let alone Ron’s, and witnessing the crumbling decay of his once lovely suit would only leave Draco more depressed.

Of course, he’d gone to Harry and Seamus since. They were always kind; would invite Draco in and ask him how he was doing in soft, careful tones and fuck them. Because he didn’t need their pitying looks and empty platitudes. He needed them to tell him where Ron was. But the bastards remained stubbornly silent on that point and Draco always left feeling angry and frustrated.

***

It was a week since Ron had left. Draco was sitting in the lounge scrolling through the contacts list on his mobile. He really needed to start looking for a new job and he was considering which of his acquaintances would be best placed to help. The problem, of course, was that the thought of returning to the life he’d left behind a month ago, made something inside twist painfully. Maybe he had a tumour.

Draco automatically reached his hand up to stroke Scabbers but found only empty air where the rat should have been. Christ, Weasley had really done a number on him. He was missing a stupid fucking rat and a scrawny excuse for an owl. Maybe if he went back to his flat, it might not hurt quite as much there. But Draco couldn’t risk it. What if Ron came back while he was gone? 

Just then, Draco heard a key in the door and he was sure that his heart stopped completely for a minute before it thumped painfully back to life, beating double time against his ribs. Oh God, he was back. He was back.

He listened to footsteps making their slow way up the hallway and into the kitchen. And something was wrong, it didn’t sound right. Draco didn’t get it at first, couldn’t place what was missing. Then it hit him. The click. There was no click of wood on wood. 

When Harry found him, Draco was doubled over sobbing into his hands. 

***

Harry was very kind.

He didn’t mock Draco for his unmanly tears and general patheticness (which yes, not an actual word but very much how Draco felt). Harry provided tissues and water and even gave him an awkward sort of hug. Unfortunately, when Draco felt almost human again, he promptly undid all of Harry’s good work by begging him rather pitifully yet again to please just tell him where Ron was.

Harry walked across the room and stood at the window. For a moment Draco thought he was still going to refuse to tell him and felt panic growing in his belly; Harry was his last hope, if he continued to refuse to help, then Draco didn’t know what he’d do next.

“Ron didn’t want me to tell you,” Harry said and Draco felt his last chance slipping away.

Harry turned around and looked hard at Draco for a long moment. “But sometimes Ron is a dick.” 

Draco snorted at that despite his worry. 

Harry smiled and some of the tension seemed to bleed out of the room. 

“He wanted to protect you, Draco, thought his life was too messy. But I think he was wrong. I think it’s about time you rolled up your sleeves and got your hands dirty. Because life is meant to be messy; it’s downright brutal sometimes and that’s when we need someone to wade through the ugly shit and keep us afloat. Ron’s been doing it for others long enough, now it’s time for someone to do it for him. And well,” Harry shook his head and grinned wryly. “God knows why, but his heart seems to have settled on you.”

Draco's heart was hammering again. It might have been hope or it could have been dread. He felt wiped out, weak and sick and Harry hadn’t even told him anything yet. What good could Draco do? How could he hold anyone else up? He sank down into the nearest chair and buried his head in his hands.

“I – I need him, Harry. God knows I’m a selfish bastard, always have been, always will be. Even now I want to find him for my own sake, because I can’t fathom not having him here. Even if it was bad for him, I wouldn’t care; if helping Ron, saving him meant walking away, I’d fucking hold on for all I was worth, until there was nothing of him left.” Draco looked up then. “I don’t want what’s good for him, Harry. I just want him for me.”

Harry nodded slowly. “I figured as much,” he said.

“But –” Draco didn’t know what else to say. How could Harry know all that about him, know how utterly selfish he was, and still seem to want to help him find Ron?

“Don’t look so shocked, Draco. First of all, you’re pretty transparent, what you see is what you get.” Harry grinned. “Anyone trying to dive into your hidden depths is likely to get concussion.”

Draco frowned, he had a feeling he’d just been called shallow. 

Harry snickered slyly. “Oh, come on now, Ron’s good at turning people’s lives around but even he can’t perform miracles. And, sometimes we need someone who will love us in spite of ourselves. Second of all, noble gets you fuck all.”

Draco’s eyes widened in shock. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe it; he was just surprised that Harry did.

“Yeah, thought that might surprise you,” Harry said with a wink. “I believe you’re good for Ron and I’ll do everything I can to help you get him. Including fucking him over; he’s welcome to kick my arse later.”

Harry stood up again and made his way over to the drinks cabinet. He took out two glasses and the whiskey bottle. Pouring a generous measure in each glass, he walked back to Draco and handed him one, before retaking his own seat and sipping from the remaining glass.

“So,” he said. “There are some things you need to know.” He took another sip of his drink then settled the glass between his two hands.

Draco took a deep swallow of his own drink; he had a feeling he was going to need it.

“Four years ago,” Harry said. “Ron was in a car accident with his brother, Fred. Ron suffered serious leg and back injuries, hence the walking stick.” He paused, looking down into his glass. 

“And his brother?” Draco prompted.

Harry sighed before looking back up at Draco. “Killed instantly,” he said.

“Wow, that’s—” Draco didn’t really know what to say.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “The road they were on was pretty isolated and it was the middle of the night.”

Draco wasn’t sure why Harry felt it was necessary to go into the details and was thinking about saying as much, when he realized exactly what the other man was saying.

“No one saw the accident. It was only the next day when George, Fred’s twin, got worried and went out looking for them that they were found.”

Draco felt sick; he had an awful feeling he knew where this was going.

Harry took a quick sip of his drink and stood up, walking back to the window. “Ron was conscious the whole time.” He turned to look at Draco. “Next to Fred,” he said looking as heartbroken as Draco felt. 

“Oh, God.” 

“He blames himself.” Harry’s voice broke into Draco’s tumultuous thoughts.

Draco looked up. “Was he driving?” He asked.

“No,” Harry shook his head. “It wasn’t that. Ron was at a party that night and got into a fight with his boyfriend. He called Fred to come and get him. It had snowed the night before and the temperature had plummeted during the night. On the way back, the car hit a patch of black ice and Fred lost control and drove off the road.”

Harry sat back down again. “It was no one’s fault, Draco, but Ron has never forgiven himself for calling Fred that night.”

“But he couldn’t have known that they’d crash.”

“I know,” Harry nodded sadly. “We all know. No one blames Ron but himself. It’s been so hard on his family. They lost Fred that night but they might as well have lost Ron too. He refuses to see any of them, can’t face them, especially George.”

“Why George?” Draco asked curiously.

Harry stared at him for a moment. “Well,” he said. “How do you think he feels every time he looks at George and sees Fred?”

“Oh.” Draco felt stupid. “The twin thing. Sorry, I didn’t really take that bit in.”

Harry just shook his head dismissively as if perhaps he thought Draco had earned a moment or two of being dumb. 

They were silent for a few minutes and Draco thought about what he’d been told.

“Do they know where he is?” He asked eventually.

Harry nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. “But they’re waiting for him to come to them, when he’s ready. I try to keep them up to date with how he is until then. That’s what that phone call was about.”

There were a few more moments of quiet.

“You’re a good friend, Harry.”

Harry shrugged. “I try to be,” he said with a sigh. “But I’m not what he needs.” He looked pointedly at Draco.

Draco bit his lip; there was something else he needed to know. “And what about this whole ‘man a month’ thing? Don’t you think it’s weird?” he asked uncertainly. He knew a lot of how he felt about Ron’s past was twisted up with his own jealousy, but he was also genuinely curious about how others saw it. Surely it wasn’t exactly normal? 

Harry quirked an eyebrow at him. “What about it?” he asked. “What do you find harder to understand, Draco? The offering? Or the accepting?”

Draco ducked his head. “He was very persistent,” he mumbled.

Harry chuckled. “I’m sure he was,” he said. 

“How long has he been doing it?” 

Harry stopped smiling and sighed again. “Long enough,” he said decisively. He got back up and walked over to refill his glass.

Draco watched his movements and thought about the Ron he knew and the Ron Harry had just shown him. He waited for Harry to resume his seat before he spoke again.

“But he seems so happy,” he said. “He’s so easy going, nothing seems to bother him.” Draco looked at Harry with bewildered eyes. “How can that be after what he’s been through?”

Harry shrugged. “Because that’s who he is,” he said. “At least, it’s who he is now. I didn’t really know him before, but I get the impression from his family that he used to have quite the temper and could be riled pretty easily. But when he got out of the hospital he was different. He seemed determined to make the most of every day, almost like he felt he owed it to Fred. It’s like he knows now how easily it can all be taken away, so he’s careful with life, his own and others. The monthly thing came about gradually. He really does have a gift for seeing other people’s pain, Draco, and he can’t stop himself from wanting to help.”

“Does he?” Draco asked plaintively. “Help them? Does he help all of them?”

Harry smiled. “I was his first January.”

***

A little later, they were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea. Draco had lost the desperate clawing feeling that had been tearing at his stomach since Ron had left. He knew now that Harry was going to tell him where Ron had gone and he didn’t feel the need to rush it. He wanted to know everything first, anything that would help when he was face to face with Ron again; Draco may have won Harry over but Ron was another matter entirely.

“So,” he said to Harry. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Oh,” Harry put down his cup. “Ron asked me to come round and check on you.” He laughed. “He told me to check the cupboards and fridge to make sure you were eating properly.” He stared across the table at Draco. “And then he expects me to believe him when he says he doesn’t love you.”

Draco smiled at that; it sounded hopeful at least. Something suddenly occurred to him and made his stomach lurch again.

“Oh, my God!” He said sitting up straighter in his chair. “That day I met him at the test centre. I stopped him taking his test.”

Harry frowned. “Yeah, I know,” he said uncertainly.

“No, don’t you get it?” Draco said anxiously. “What if he’d spent the last four years trying to pluck up the courage to take his driving test, to finally get behind the wheel after that terrible crash and my selfishness destroyed it all?”

To his amazement, Harry started to chuckle. “Relax, Draco,” he said. “You didn’t destroy anything. Ron has been trying to take that test once a month for the last two years. He always finds a reason to walk out, or to get himself kicked out. How do you think I met him?”

Draco gaped. 

Harry nodded, smiling. “Yeah, trust me; we all resigned ourselves a long time ago to driving Ron around for the rest of our lives.”

***

“So, where is he?”

This was it, the moment this whole conversation had been working towards and Draco felt his chest tightening in anticipation. He didn’t care how far he’d have to go to get to him but Draco was determined not to spend another day without Ron.

Harry suddenly looked sheepish and Draco panicked thinking that Harry was going to change his mind again and refuse to tell him. 

“Okay,” Harry started hesitantly. “Now, don’t hit me, or, you know, start throwing things, but... he’s been staying with us.”

Draco blinked. He was two streets away.

“He’s – he’s – with you? All this time, he’s been right there?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Harry winced and shrugged one shoulder. “Honestly, I felt terrible every time you came round and I had to lie but – well, I owe my loyalty to him, you know?”

Draco did, he knew all too well. Ron had a way of winning people’s hearts. He was just happy that Harry had trusted him enough in the end to share Ron.

“Here,” Harry said holding out a door key. “He’s there now.”

And Draco couldn’t wait a minute longer. He grabbed the key and ran for the door. He didn’t stop running until he was at Harry’s front door. He was panting by then, and he stood for a few minutes trying to catch his breath and collect himself. He realised he was shaking, whether from nerves or adrenalin was anyone’s guess, probably a bit of both. Draco took one last deep breath and turned the key in the lock. He closed the door quietly behind him and walked softly along the hallway, not wanting to startle Ron by his sudden appearance.

“Is that you, Harry?”

It was Ron’s voice and Draco paused for a moment as his breathing quickened. He was in the next room, three, maybe four steps and Draco would see him again. He walked to the doorway and then stopped. Ron had his back to him, preoccupied with looking at something on his phone.

“Was he still there?” he asked, obviously still thinking Draco was Harry. “Was he alright?”

Draco moved into the room. “Yes,” he said. “I’m still there, and no, I’m not alright.” 

Ron turned slowly, the phone forgotten in his hand now. “Draco,” he said softly.

For a moment they just stood still, looking at each other and then, to Draco’s immense relief, Ron moved towards him. He reached out for Draco with both hands, wrapping them carefully around his neck and pulling him towards him. Their lips met in a fierce kiss, all the while Ron trying to pull him ever closer, as if he couldn’t believe that Draco was really there (Draco knew exactly how he felt).

The kiss went on for quite some time, both of them seemingly eager to feel the other beneath their hands and mouth once again. Finally, when the need to breathe overcame their need to keep touching, they pulled back, but not far, staying close, hands still holding on.

Draco looked into Ron’s eyes. “Come home,” he said simply.

Ron stepped back and sighed, and Draco thought oh God, please not again. 

“Let’s sit down,” Ron said and led them both over to the sofa. They sat close, Draco still holding Ron’s hand, determined not to let go. 

Ron angled his body toward Draco so he could face him while they talked. “I can’t stay with you, Draco,” he said quietly. “It wouldn’t be fair on you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Draco snapped back; he was trying not to get angry, but Ron’s stubbornness was threatening to unhinge him again. “Not having you there. You hiding from me. That’s what’s not bloody fair.”

Ron looked down at their hands then. “I’m broken, Draco. In more ways than you could imagine.” He looked up again. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be fixed and you shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

“Oh, bollocks,” Draco blurted out. “You’re not so bloody complicated. I know about the accident. I know about Fred and why you refuse to see your family. Harry’s told me it all because he agrees with me that it is fixable. _You’re_ fixable. You just have to let me help.”

Ron smiled sadly. “Harry is definitely sacked as my best friend,” he said sounding tired.

Draco moved in a bit closer. “What do you think Fred would think of what you’re doing? How would he feel knowing that his death had caused this rift with the rest of your family?”

The look on Ron’s face was hard to take but Draco carried on, needing to lay it all out for him, even at the risk of sounding cruel. 

“And what about George?” he asked. “Does he deserve to be punished just for looking like Fred?”

Ron’s face crumbled at that and Draco had to stop and pull Ron to him.

“I killed him, Draco,” Ron sobbed into his neck.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did. If I hadn’t called him that night, if I hadn’t drunk too much and got into that stupid fight.” 

“No,” Draco insisted stroking Ron's back and pulling him closer. “You couldn’t have known what would happen. No one blames you. Why must you blame yourself?”

“I miss him,” Ron cried. “I miss him so much.”

Draco didn’t really know what to say to that, he felt completely out of his element here. “Remember the good times,” he said not entirely convinced it would be any help.

“I can’t,” Ron clutched desperately at his arms. “Every time I close my eyes I see him in the – the seat next to me. His—his eyes were open but I knew he was dead. So—so white, except for the r—red.” 

Ron was crying in earnest now and Draco wondered if he’d ever really spoken about it before this. Oh Ron, he thought, my poor, poor Ron.

“It should have been me.”

“No,” Draco’s voice was steely and he gripped the other man tighter. “ _No_.” God, no, never that.

For a while Ron just cried and Draco held him. Eventually the tears subsided, and Ron yawned, seeming to melt against Draco. He must have been tired out; maybe he’d been sleeping as badly as Draco. Minutes passed without any sound from Ron other than his steady, quiet breaths and Draco began to think that he’d fallen asleep.

“I—I don’t know if I’ll ever feel differently.” Ron’s voice was barely a whisper and Draco had to lean down to hear him. “Don’t know if I can move on,” he said voice slurring with fatigue.

Draco rested his cheek against Ron’s hair. “Let me help,” he whispered.

Ron tilted his head up and smiled. Then his eyes turned sad again. “I won’t get any better, you know. This is as good as it gets, Draco.”

“God, Ron, I can barely handle you now.”

Ron smiled again at that, but it soon faded. “And, well, there’s more. The damage to my spine is degenerative; it won’t get better but it will get worse. I maybe have five, six years before I’ll need a wheelchair. I don’t want to tie you to that. You deserve better.”

“I deserve you,” Draco said. He rolled his eyes and gave a wry shake of his head. “Or at least I’m working on it.” 

Ron bit his lip and stared at him for a long time. He looked undecided, like he was still on the brink of bolting and Draco held his breath and for the first time in a long time, prayed.

***

Two men sat on the edge of a beach, one in a wheel chair, the other on the bench next to him. A blanket was tucked around the legs of the man in the chair. The other’s bare feet were covered in sand and beginning to turn blue with cold. Three wet, sand freckled dogs lay panting at their side.

The man in the chair looked down at the other’s feet.

“You’ve rolled up your trousers,” he said.

The man on the bench leaned closer. “I have,” he said into the other’s ear. 

“Think of the creases,” the man in the chair said in mock horror and grinned.

The man on the bench reached up his hand to touch the other’s greying hair.

“I grow old… I grow old…,” he whispered. “I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.” 

And he leaned the last few inches and kissed his husband’s ear.


End file.
